Hiraeth
by arduna
Summary: The Musketeers escort the Queen to meet her young cousin. It should be a routine mission, but we all know what that means... d'Artagnan is determined to avoid another dressing down from the King after their brush with the Spanish Slavers, but what will it take to do his duty and win back his reputation?
1. Chapter 1: Riding Out

Hiraeth

Set in Season 2 after "An Ordinary Man".

Author's Note: Hiraeth is a Welsh word which has no direct translation into English, but carries a sense of loss (of people or a place) and longing, a bit like homesickness tinged with grief or sadness. I was half way through this story when I heard a programme on BBC Radio 4 about _hiraeth_ , and immediately knew it fitted this story, which starts with d'Artagnan's yearning for all the things he has lost. Although to be honest it does quite quickly turn into an extended whump-fest. Just in case the title leads you to have high literary expectations... This is also my first fanfic of any kind but I've read so many fabulous stories, which have kept me sane (I think) since the end of Series 3. I hope I've learned enough to give something back to all of you who have given me so many hours of wistful pleasure.

PS I've just realised that _hiraeth_ also sums up perfectly how I feel about the end of The Musketeers. A yearning for something precious that is lost, indeed!

Chapter1: Riding Out

Something wasn't right, mused Porthos, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't like the feeling.

It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day; the sun had burned through the early morning mist and was now warming the back of his neck. The countryside to the west of Paris was tranquil, still green and full of... trees, cows and stuff. His childhood in Paris' slum area, the Court of Miracles, had left him vague about the intricacies of the rural landscape, but it smelled and looked good. He loved the anticipation of a new mission and though he always missed his home city after a few days, there was nothing better than riding out of the gates with three of his favourite people in the world – four, if you counted Constance (which he did). There was the added burden of being responsible for the safety of the Queen, but that was his job and, surrounded by his brothers and barely two hours out of Paris on a well-travelled highway, he had no worries about being able to protect her. So what was niggling at him?

Ahead of his current position at the rear of the diamond shape they traditionally used when on escort duty, Porthos had a good view of the rest of their group. Athos and d'Artagnan rode either side of Constance and the Queen. It was decidedly unusual for the Queen to be on horseback rather than in a carriage, but she had been very clear that this expedition was to be low-key and she would remain incognito. So she wore a plain blue dress and a dark blue shawl, although she had drawn the line at riding astride, favouring a side-saddle instead. In deference to the Queen they rode at a steady pace – apart from Aramis who had taken point since leaving the west gate of Paris behind, and regularly ranged far ahead to check the road for any dangers. It all looked organised, normal, just how it should. Yet he still felt unsettled.

Maybe it was the silence, he thought. After a decade in the king's service, it seemed sometimes that he had spent more time away from the bustle of the city streets than he did in Paris, so it wasn't the tranquillity of their surroundings that bothered him. But normally their missions – at least until they ran into trouble, which admittedly seemed to be more often than not – were punctuated with teasing, reminiscing, and the sort of boisterous behaviour that they couldn't get away with when on duty at the palace or when training at the Garrison. So any escape from Paris, except when on the most urgent of missions, was usually a chance for them all to let off steam and definitely, _definitely_ , for some ribbing of Athos who was the perfect target as he always refused to respond.

Today however, was different and Porthos didn't know why. Sure, the presence of Her Royal Highness would put a dampener on most of their usual jokes and pranks, but even so he expected there to be some chatter, a bit of gentle teasing, some enjoyment of the perfect day and anticipation of the journey ahead. But there wasn't.

Aramis was being ridiculously aloof, not catching anyone's eye even when the Queen got her riding boot caught in her skirt when remounting after a brief stop for breakfast; Porthos' own snort of amusement as she struggled to free her foot and nearly toppled backwards off her white mare in the process, was met only with a reproving glare from Athos. Aramis behaved as if he hadn't noticed and it was left to d'Artagnan to go to the Queen's rescue, wrestling briefly with the errant fabric and (after a hasty "excuse me, your Majesty"), putting a polite hand on her back to steady her whilst she found her seat and settled into position. But d'Artagnan had then mounted and moved straight off, without catching anyone's eye or waiting to see if Constance was ready, and Porthos had had to move forward quickly to offer the Queen's new companion a leg-up so she didn't get left behind. What was that about?

As if in answer to his thoughts, d'Artagnan suddenly wheeled his black mare and cantered her back towards Porthos, who greeted him with his usual broad smile. "All right, mate?"

d'Artagnan ignored his greeting and snapped: "Have you checked behind us recently? Because if you're not bothering, maybe I should." And without waiting for an answer, he pushed the mare past Porthos and disappeared, at pace, back around the bend they'd just negotiated.

Nope, thought Porthos as he nudged his horse forward to take d'Artagnan's place next to the Queen, something definitely wasn't right.

Athos noticed the exchange – of course he did, he noticed everything. But he didn't react, focussed as he was on Aramis' stiff silhouette as the marksman cantered ahead to the next bend. A flare of his nostrils was the only visible sign of the irritation he was feeling with his normally steadfast and amicable brother. Surely that man would be the death of him one of these days! He loved him dearly but his passionate Latin blood had led him into so much trouble over the years, all of which was eclipsed by his latest indiscretion. Indiscretion? Such a trivial word for the greatest crime of all: treason. He still struggled to comprehend what had possessed Aramis, in the middle of the danger surrounding them as they sheltered the Queen at the convent, to ... he could hardly say the words even in his head. The morning after, when he found the pair entwined in the narrow bed of the nun's cell, his rage had threatened to engulf him and he had barely been able to speak the accusation through his gritted teeth, sure that if he opened his mouth properly he would scream the words so loudly the whole convent would have heard. Now he couldn't vocalise them even in his head. What had he been _thinking_?

It actually astonished Athos how angry he still felt, even now – nearly a year later, with the outcome of that illicit passion safely baptised and tucked up in his nursery back at the Palace. But it was obvious that one, rash act still dominated Aramis' thoughts, and Athos worried daily that he would eventually give himself away by an unguarded glance, a smile or just by standing too close. Aramis had years of practice at disguising his liaisons, many with married women, but his position as a King's musketeer placed him virtually daily in the presence of the Queen – and under the eyes of the King, the couriers and of course Rochefort. Not only was that tough on Aramis – although he would never admit it, so desperate was he to snatch every possible moment in the Queen's presence, every fleeting glimpse of his son – but it gave Athos a seemingly permanent headache as he juggled rotas and duties, trying to keep Aramis safe from temptation and discovery.

This mission, timely though it was after the anxieties of the last weeks when the king had disappeared from their care and had to be rescued, along with d'Artagnan, from the slavers, was fraught with danger. Athos was determined to keep Aramis safe from temptation which would leave Porthos and d'Artagnan – both currently unaware of Aramis' astonishing lapse of judgement and control – subject to the same charges of treason that the Queen, as well as Aramis and Athos would face if the act was discovered. Hence Aramis' current position at the head of their ensemble, where he couldn't be caught gazing longingly at the Queen.

Not that Aramis would thank him for his concern. In fact, Athos was pretty sure Aramis was gathering himself into a major sulk. So what should be a simple mission – escorting the Queen to a rendezvous barely a day's ride from Paris, to meet up with a young female cousin who was stopping off at St Malo en route to England – looked as if it would demand every ounce of patience in Athos' command. And that was without worrying about d'Artagnan who seemed to have lost all his exuberance and optimism since being captured with the king by the slavers. D'Artagnan seemed to have taken the king's criticism to heart although he refused to talk about it and changed the subject, or simply walked away, if any of them brought it up. Sighing, Athos turned his attention back to the two most important people in their group – the Queen, and Constance who was now her constant companion and most trusted friend – and tuned back into their conversation.

Another hour down the road, and several stunningly boring conversations later (to Athos, at least – the two ladies seemed quite enthralled by the story of the lady Marguerite's affair with an unknown man which was doing the rounds of the palace, and almost as excited by their discussion of a new English brocade which Constance's husband had presented to the Queen with sketches of a ceremonial gown he was urging her to commission from him), Athos fell with relief on Porthos' hint about the midday sun and how nice it would be to enjoy a little refreshment, and started looking around for a suitable spot. Just then Aramis cantered back from another scouting foray, to announce that there was a small lake ahead which would make a good resting spot. Glancing back, Athos noted that d'Artagnan was ranging slightly north of the road but within earshot, so he gave him a whistle and moved their group onto the grass following Aramis' directions.

In a few hundred yards they emerged from the deep woodland which characterised the Forêt du Perche area, onto the promised lakeside, and the men moved seamlessly into their well-rehearsed routine. Athos sent Aramis to scout fully around the lake, checking for any habitations or signs of unwelcome activity in their environs. Porthos and d'Artagnan dismounted and Porthos helped the ladies to the ground and towards a convenient fallen log which promised a reasonably comfortable seat with a view of the water, while d'Artagnan took all four horses to the lake to drink, then tethered them in the shade of the trees. Athos remained on horseback, hand hovering near his pistol, until Aramis returned to report that all was well. By this time Porthos had unloaded their travelling provisions from the saddlebags (always his favourite duty) and had found a tree stump on which to lay out bread, cooked meats and cheese. Within minutes Athos had set water to heat on a small fire and everyone was gathered around to eat.

An hour later found the group reluctantly rising to repack provisions and remount. It had been a pleasant meal and Aramis in particular had risen to the occasion, moving into full charm mode to entertain the ladies, ably assisted by Porthos who had a wealth of tavern tales to draw on. Athos felt more relaxed than he had been all day, sensing that Aramis was determined to behave professionally and honourably around the Queen. But d'Artagnan still worried him. The young musketeer had remained uncharacteristically silent, eating little and speaking only when directly addressed. He had risen as soon as his repast was over, busying himself again with the horses and finding endless small jobs to do – picking out their hooves, making a twist of grass to rub down the horses' sweaty flanks, wiping dust from their eyes with a scrap of cloth dug from his pocket. As soon as they were mounted he rode off, saying over his shoulder that he would take point and not waiting for approval from Athos.

Aramis shot him a questioning look, but Athos simply lifted a brow in the facial shrug at which he excelled, so Aramis dropped back to take rear guard leaving Porthos and Athos again to accompany the women.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, and they arrived at their destination – an inn Athos knew from previous journeys in the area, near the village of La Loupe – as dusk was falling. The innkeeper came out to greet them and point out the stables to the right of his sturdy dwelling; d'Artagnan immediately volunteered to take and settle the horses, ignoring the innkeeper's offer of his own stable boy to tend to them. Athos smiled tolerantly – d'Artagnan was fastidious about the care of his own mare, and never liked leaving her to a stranger – and moved the rest of the group swiftly inside to the welcome warmth of the main room now that the evening clouds were gathering.

Over supper, d'Artagnan found he had so many thoughts whirling through his mind that sometimes it felt as if his head would burst open like an over-ripe tomato. As long as he was busy he could focus on whatever task was at hand, but as soon as his body stopped moving his thoughts stampeded back into the forefront of his mind and made it impossible to function normally. He was trying really hard to keep everything under control – any lapse in concentration could be disastrous if harm were to come to the queen, Constance or his fellow musketeers – but he wasn't optimistic about his ability to mask his turmoil. Something that was confirmed as soon as he lifted his gaze from the bowl of stew he was currently prodding at listlessly with his spoon, and caught Athos' calm grey eyes regarding him piercingly across the inn table.

"Something wrong with your food, d'Artagnan?" prompted Athos eventually, once it was clear to him that d'Artagnan wasn't going to say anything. He stifled a grin as Porthos perked up, no doubt hoping to claim his leftovers.

All other conversation around the table halted as eyes turned first to Athos then to d'Artagnan, who was now flushing slightly at being the sudden focus of everyone's interest.

"No, no it's ... lovely", he stuttered slightly and quickly scooped a spoonful into his mouth to prove his words. Finding himself about to add an "mmm" noise, as a mother might to convince a recalcitrant child to eat up, he suppressed a chuckle at the randomness of his inner thoughts. Sadly the chuckle seemed to be warring with the mouthful of stew and before he knew it he was bent double, coughing and choking as Aramis pounded enthusiastically on his back. "Stop, for God's sake man!" he managed to splutter crossly, trying to catch his breath. Porthos pulled Aramis off him, laughing silently to himself, and the Queen politely handed d'Artagnan her own glass of water, much to his embarrassment.

If two of their party were disappointed that the ladies disappeared directly into their room after the meal, neither d'Artagnan nor Aramis showed it overtly. Porthos entertained the other guests in the common room with some card tricks – choosing not to enter into a game proper, as he had to share the night with them and preferred not to have to deal with angry punters claiming he had cheated (as if!) – while the others sat quietly by the fire, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

Before long Athos was organising shifts with him and Aramis taking first watch, as was often the custom. Porthos had long trained himself to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, the Court of Miracles having taught him that safe sleeping places were rare and a moment of security had to be enjoyed to the full wherever possible. And d'Artagnan: well, he was young, and supposedly pure of heart, and normally fell asleep within minutes.

Tonight though, sleep didn't come to him easily, not helped by Porthos snoring at full volume on the other bed. When the threatened rain began to drum its fingers noisily across the inn roof, he gave up.

Stepping quietly out of the room he stopped on the landing to pull on his boots and give Aramis the ghost of a smile, then ran noiselessly down the stairs to the common room below. Athos looked up enquiringly as d'Artagnan appeared. "Everything okay?"

"Um... just thought I'd check on the horses. Sounds like it's going to thunder." He moved swiftly to the outside door and gathered up his travelling cloak from a hook beside it. Athos rose, putting down the cup of wine he'd been nursing, and followed d'Artagnan out into the stormy night. Hurrying across the yard they both fell into the barn dripping wet after only a few moments in the rain. "Bloody weather!" swore d'Artagnan, shaking his head grumpily and looking around the barn. Most of the horses were dozing or munching on hay, although Athos' stallion was flinging his head into the air and stamping restlessly. Athos moved to calm him whilst d'Artagnan went from stall to stall, checking all the occupants automatically regardless of who they belonged to. Athos watched him, one hand resting on his stallion's neck, and waited.

After several long minutes where the only sound was the stamping of feet and the rustling of straw, Athos said softly "Feel free to tell me what's bothering you." d'Artagnan paused beside his own mare, running his hand down her legs to check for heat, then heaved a sigh and muttered something that sounded a little like "I'm sorry." Athos waited a bit more, quieting his horse when a distant roll of thunder rolled into the darkened barn. When it became apparent that d'Artagnan wasn't going to add anything, Athos stirred himself. "What are you sorry for?"

Another long pause, another roll of thunder. "I can't... I'm not... I haven't been..." He trailed off, sounding miserable. Athos pursed his lips, feeling a bit lost. Then decided, since d'Artagnan clearly wanted to talk, but couldn't work out where to start, he – great talker that he was, of course! – would have to start things off. Clearing his throat and feeling distinctly out of his depths, he pitched his voice over the rising racket of the rain and wind.

"So, Aramis thinks it's to do with Constance. You're still in love with her, and seeing her virtually every day at the Palace is making it harder for you to get over her." Athos hated talking about anyone's feelings, but somehow reporting what someone else thought made it slightly easier to voice. It was hard to make out d'Artagnan's features in the gloom, but he could see the hunch of his shoulders as he braced himself, and the way he dropped his head slightly told Athos his words had hit their mark. But Athos was pretty sure there was more to it than simple unrequited love – though when was that ever simple? – so he pressed on. "Porthos on the other hand, remembered that this week is the second anniversary of your father's death." He paused, then added softly: "He's right, isn't he; and this time last year..."

d'Artagnan broke in: "This time last year I was accepting my commission from the King and helping to best Cardinal Richelieu. I didn't have much time to think about anything then."

"Indeed."

Another long silence. Athos had hoped that naming the cause of d'Artagnan's melancholy would allow him to talk more freely but apparently not. Athos grimaced, realising his fear that there was more to it might be accurate. Only to be pre-empted by d'Artagnan's low voice: "And you... did you have a theory too?" Taking a deep breath, Athos prepared to step delicately onto the metaphorical minefield again.

"I wondered..." (wishing for a cup of decent red wine in his hand right now) "... whether your experiences with the King might have left you..." (How to phrase this without offending him if his interpretation wasn't correct?) "... might still be playing on your mind." (Perfect. Nice and cryptic, he should have been a diplomat.) In good light a careful observer might have noticed a fractional twitch of his lips at this thought, but it was fleeting.

There was another long silence, and Athos was steeling himself to speak again, though he had no idea what to add, when to his relief d'Artagnan finally joined the conversation.

"It's the first time I've really spoken to him, you know? At first I couldn't believe it – shackled to the King! It was ... an impossible situation for both of us. And I couldn't be myself, I couldn't risk fighting or standing up to them too much because I was responsible for him." Athos' lips definitely twitched at this. d'Artagnan, of all people, would have found this the hardest part.

D'Artagnan's stumbling words now gathered speed, tumbling over themselves in his vehemence: "Only when Pepin fell and no one else stepped forward, I couldn't leave him to die, so I had to... and the King was furious that I was looking after someone else... but he ended up helping, Athos, he helped carry a poor black man! By the time we reached the holding camp that night it was as if... as if we weren't King and subject anymore but just two men; we were... tired, and scared, and hungry, and we needed each other. And he told me stuff, about his childhood and his father, and we talked, properly talked. A bit anyway. And I understood him better, I even liked him! Admired him, he was awesome in the gun fight Athos, you should have seen him. And then he... he... argh!" His intense, inarticulate ending showed his frustration.

"And then he belittled you at Court by asking you to kill Bruno Le Maitre?" Athos trod carefully.

"Not belittled!"

"Insulted?"

"No!" d'Artagnan virtually stamped his foot in his frustration at his inability to explain himself properly, and his mare flung her head up, startled. "No," he continued more quietly, gentling her then moving towards where Athos leaned on a post calmly regarding his young protégée, "No, it wasn't about me. It was more that... he'd just gone back to being the spoilt, cosseted, demanding, childish..."

"Steady," admonished Athos, stopping d'Artagnan before he could finish his treasonous sentiment. That way trouble waited for a Musketeer, even in a storm where no other ears could hear. D'Artagnan had the grace to look slightly ashamed – but then his expression hardened again and he continued in a low, fierce voice. "I had learned to admire him, and was open with him, and he simply showed that he had understood nothing. Nothing! And then he said we had disappointed him, again. And I knew he meant me. I had disappointed him. And I can't decide whether to be angry with him for treating us like ... like chess pieces he just moves around, and commands to kill on a whim... or whether to feel ashamed because I disappointed my King. And either way..." he trailed off, and Athos found himself holding his breath. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. He waited, regarding d'Artagnan steadily with his calm blue gaze. D'Artagnan stirred the straw around with his booted toe, and finally sighed, and finished in a rush: "Either way, I'm not sure if I'm cut out to be a Musketeer, if that's who we are supposed to be."

Disclaimer: this is a work of fan fiction based on the characters developed and owned by the BBC series. No copyright infringement for financial gain.


	2. Chapter 2: The Meeting

**Chapter 2: The Meeting**

Athos groaned as daylight streamed through the curtain Porthos had just noisily yanked open. "Rise and shine!" Porthos prompted, striding over to Aramis and poking him enthusiastically in the ribs. Athos hauled himself reluctantly out of bed and began his morning stretches, ignoring the consequent explosion from Aramis, the scuffle as Porthos ducked a wild swipe from the half-awake marksman, and the thump as Porthos retaliated by yanking on a protruding foot and dumping Aramis on the floor in a tangle of bedding.

Last night's confrontation in the barn was uppermost on his mind and as soon as Porthos had hauled Aramis to his feet, patted him on the back and helped him restore order to his bed, Athos inquired after d'Artagnan. "He's out feeding the horses. Breakfast is ready – _pain perdu*_ , very tasty!" Porthos had a faraway look in his eyes, no doubt wondering if he could get away with going back for a second helping.

Athos sighed, wondering how much sleep the youngster had got. They had headed back to the warmth of the fire after their talk and d'Artagnan had sat with him for an hour before heading back to his bed, but by then only an hour of Athos' watch remained and he doubted d'Artagnan would have fallen asleep straight away, if at all.

After d'Artagnan's revelation about doubting his calling as a Musketeer, Athos had talked to him about loyalty and doing the right thing regardless of who was on the throne, but he wasn't sure if his words had helped the youngster's turmoil. Particularly as he had then confided that Porthos and Aramis had been partly right, in that he was still missing Constance horribly, and was struggling to cope with being in her company all day but unable to talk to her as they used to.

Athos' attention had drifted at this point as he reflected that Aramis would be suffering similar problems being around the Queen, and he had tuned back to d'Artagnan with a guilty start when he realised the lad was now talking about his father. Athos had belatedly remembered that the attack on his father had happened during a rainstorm in an inn near Paris, and d'Artagnan had admitted that pretty much everything at the moment – the reminders of the weather and the countryside around Paris, so close to the second anniversary of his father's death; being close to Constance without being able to properly talk to her; the responsibility for the Queen; and his doubts about his chosen path – was making it impossible to think straight.

Athos thought d'Artagnan had gone to bed feeling slightly better for having talked, and he had given the youngster a rare, if brief, pat on the shoulder as they bid each other goodnight for the second time. But when he came in to announce that the horses were ready, the dark rings around d'Artagnan's eyes and his weary movements told their own story. Athos sighed, then stood to offer his arm to the Queen as she rose from her table. "Time we were going," he warned Porthos softly as the big man was eyeing up the remaining bread rolls. With a wistful backwards glance, Porthos moved off and within minutes they were mounted and back on the road.

Athos directed Aramis to ride at the rear of their party with d'Artagnan. Aramis raised an eyebrow – they rarely posted two rear-guard riders – but made no comment, and fell into place beside the silent and weary-looking Gascon.

After a mile or so of listening to birdsong Aramis was fidgeting and sighing, and eventually d'Artagnan took pity on him. "Anything you want to say?"

"Me?" Aramis sounded startled. "No, why would I?"

D'Artagnan cast him a sideways glance. "Because you've not said a word in 10 minutes and that's not like you. Something's on your mind."

"Oh, and there speaks the Gascon who's barely spoken in the last 24 hours never mind 10 minutes!"

"So you're all right then," d'Artagnan checked.

"Yes, I am. But I don't think you are." Aramis decided to be blunt, which had the added bonus of deflecting d'Artagnan's attention from his own restlessness. "Anything I can help with?"

D'Artagnan didn't respond for a moment, fiddling with his reins and adjusting his pistol in its saddle-holster. Aramis waited but when nothing seemed forthcoming, he asked softly: "Is it Constance? I've seen the way you look at her still..."

D'Artagnan's exclamation was part groan and part exasperation and he shot a dark look at Aramis. "I don't look at her in any way! You make me sound like a ... like a love-sick... it's not like that!" he finished, sounding anguished.

Aramis simply raised an eyebrow and waited. For a minute there was no sound apart from the soft pad of their horses' hooves on the grassy track, then d'Artagnan heaved a sigh.

"It's just... look, nothing's changed. She's not going to leave Bonacieux and I've accepted that. I've moved on."

Now both Aramis' eyebrows had disappeared under his hat. If this was moving on...

D'Artagnan looked at him then tried a tentative smile. "At least, I'm trying to move on. Lucy de Fois kissed me after we rescued her and the General from the Spanish prison."

Aramis hadn't seen that coming, and started to congratulate d'Artagnan, but the lad cut him off.

"It didn't work. It just didn't feel right and I stopped her. Then I turned around and Constance was standing there."

Ah. That couldn't have been a good moment. "What happened?" Aramis was almost afraid to ask.

"She... she was hurt. And I was wrong-footed." D'Artagnan heaved another sigh. "It wasn't good. She ... I told her I knew she didn't love Bonacieux, and she told me why she had to stay with him, and I told her... I said she was a coward for not being prepared to leave him and put up with the scandal..."

"Ouch!" Aramis winced. He knew few women braver than Constance and couldn't imagine how she'd taken that accusation.

"I know! She's nothing of the sort... but I ... oh god, I wish I could take it back. But she won't even look at me now. And I can't avoid her, I see her every time we have guard duty at the Palace but she's more distant than ever, and I ...miss her." He spoke the last two words so softly that Aramis almost missed them.

Until that point he'd been sympathetic, but was also comparing d'Artagnan's situation favourably to his own, where he couldn't even have an _argument_ with the Queen let alone hope for more. But those words, spoken from the bottom of his heart, stopped his thoughts instantly.

He had already known of the lad's heartbreak in losing all hope of a future with her, but suddenly Aramis realised d'Artagnan had lost more than that when she chose to remain with Bonacieux. Constance had been d'Artagnan's only friend and confidant in the early days when he was finding his feet in the garrison, before the Inseparables had learned to trust him and love him like a brother. Long before d'Artagnan had admitted his romantic feelings for Constance, Aramis realised d'Artagnan had relied on her good sense and sisterly advice to help him through the turmoil of losing his father, turning his back on the farm, and trying to find his place in the big city. No wonder he was feeling lost now.

All the grand counsel Aramis had rehearsed to give d'Artagnan the benefit of his years of dalliance and romances with half the married women of Paris – well, most of the good-looking ones anyway – now died on his lips. He, silver-tongued, dashingly romantic hero that he was, couldn't think of a single way of comforting his young friend.

He realised he'd been silent for too long. Deciding he could only be honest, he nudged his horse sideways, leaned over to d'Artagnan and rested a hand on the lad's shoulder. "I hadn't realised how hard this has been for you. I'm sorry. I thought I could help but... Maybe you should move on. Lucy may not have been the one for you but..."

"Don't you dare!" d'Artagnan burst out, startling his mare who flung her head up and skittered sideways, dislodging Aramis' arm and momentarily unbalancing him in the saddle. They sorted themselves out, Aramis uncomfortably aware of Athos looking back quizzically at the pair of them.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan muttered once he'd settled his mare with an apologetic pat. "But if you're going to say I'll find someone else..." He trailed off.

"You might," Aramis said tentatively, ready to duck if d'Artagnan swung for him.

"I won't," d'Artagnan stated quietly. "I can't imagine loving anyone else. She's the one, Aramis."

A year ago Aramis would have snorted at the concept of there being only one love in anyone's life, especially for one as young as d'Artagnan. He had thought himself in love with Isabelle at the age of 16, but looking back he knew he had been in love with the romance of the affair, especially in the face of opposition from her family. He had mourned the loss of their unborn child but soon afterwards he had realised the narrowness of his escape, and felt nothing but relief. Since then he had been content to dally, finding endless fascination with his female companions but never feeling the need to commit to any one woman and believing he could remain detached, and therefore avoid the pain of loss if love was not reciprocated.

He knew better now, from his own recent, bitter experience. So he contented himself with another uncharacteristically naked sentiment. "I understand. Look, all I can say is that she still loves you. Any fool can see that. And you are both young – and Bonacieux is not. Who knows what fate has in store. Be patient, and don't turn your back on her even if it hurts. If you miss her friendship, you can be sure that she misses you just as much. Just be there for her when you can. And leave the rest to God, or the fates, whatever you believe in."

D'Artagnan was silent, digesting this. Then he drew a long, quivering breath deep into his lungs, and nodded. Aramis was right. He could still support her and befriend her. He would champion her and look out for her. Even if it didn't change her decision, he would still feel close to her. He made a silent vow to do all he could to stop anyone or anything from hurting her.

Aramis grinned at the determination that was written all over d'Artagnan's features, and hoped he wouldn't regret setting the Gascon on a new path of pain, if Constance really didn't love the lad. After his own years of simply enjoying the chase, staying detached and in control, he was suddenly learning for himself just how painful love can be. He knew there was no hope for his relationship with the Queen, but maybe, just maybe, his young Gascon friend could find a way to be happy with Constance. He made a vow to himself to do all he could to help, unaware how closely his thoughts mirrored those of the Gascon right then.

* * *

The morning's ride was short, and within a couple of hours they had arrived at the hostelry in Bellême where the meeting was to take place. It was a large, rambling structure, and the many interconnecting rooms and possibilities for concealment and ambush gave Athos a headache as he coordinated their search of the premises. In the end he chose an upper room on the east of the building for their meeting room; it had only one internal door leading to the landing and the staircase down to the common room leading off the main entrance, where he posted Porthos, and an external staircase and wooden balcony running the length of its front wall, where he stationed d'Artagnan. He placed Aramis in the yard where a track led back up to the main Paris road, and he waited in the room with the two ladies until, close to the appointed time, a plain carriage accompanied by four armed riders turned off the road and down towards the hostelry.

As planned, Aramis walked out to greet the occupants of the carriageway, smiling amiably even as he subtly drew attention to the pistol at his hip, and flourished a hand at the hostelry behind where d'Artagnan was watching alertly from the balcony, and Porthos could be seen filling the main doorway with his broad shoulders. They weren't expecting trouble, but it never did any harm to make sure they were taken seriously.

Watching from the top of the external staircase, however, Athos frowned as the carriage door swung open and two well-dressed men stepped out. Behind him he heard a soft exclamation from the Queen as she looked eagerly over his shoulder. "Hernán! Hernáncito!" The taller of the two courtiers looked up and waved a greeting, then strode past a bemused-looking Aramis and headed for the staircase up to the balcony. Aramis and d'Artagnan both shot questioning looks to Athos, who was already turning to the Queen. "My lady?" he queried.

"That's my cousin Hernán," she beamed.

"But we were expecting your cousin Gabriela - your 18-year-old, _female_ cousin..." Athos said, urgently, as the two Spaniards neared the top of the stairs.

"I'm sorry I misled you, but I couldn't risk the King knowing my true intentions," she explained hastily, then swept forward with both hands outstretched to greet her handsome cousin.

* * *

d'Artagnan leaned on the wooden railing of the balcony and listened to the voices that drifted out through the thin glass of the window behind him, stifling a yawn as his total lack of sleep, and the gentle warmth of the sun now it had burned off the early morning dampness, started to catch up with him. The yard was becoming busier as it neared noon, with travellers arriving to rest and eat, and carts delivering vegetables and other provisions coming and going.

Through the bustle the visitors' carriage was guarded by two of the attendants who remained alert even after an hour. The other two had accompanied the Queen's cousin and his companion – advisor? Footman? D'Artagnan didn't know. He had no idea why the Queen had lied about who she was meeting and felt unnerved and restless in spite of his exhaustion. He caught Aramis' eye; the marksman was currently standing with one foot propped onto a log pile near the stables where he had a good view of all the movements. Aramis grimaced and d'Artagnan knew he felt equally uneasy. He just hoped it was worth deceiving the King.

Just then he noticed the sound of raised voices from within the meeting room. He gave Aramis and Porthos a quick warning whistle, putting a precautionary hand on his pistol and moving soundlessly towards the window.

"This is ridiculous!" he heard the Queen proclaim firmly.

Frustratingly his position at the side of the window meant he couldn't see any of the room's occupants but it sounded as if she was standing to the left of the window. Either the cousins were having a family tiff, or something was very wrong. He drew his pistol, checked it was primed, and shrugged at Porthos who had stepped out of the taproom into the yard and was looking up enquiringly.

"Unhand her, sir." Athos' voice was chilling, and d'Artagnan knew immediately that things had gone beyond simple negotiations. A voice he didn't recognise snarled back to 'mind his own business', and then there was the sound of a scuffle and a cry - of pain? - from one of the women.

Without further thought, d'Artagnan took two rapid steps back to the edge of the balcony, then one running step forward and hurled himself headlong through the window, arms protecting his face. As he crashed through he had a blurred impression of startled faces turned his way but before he had a chance to work out who was where, all hell had broken loose.

* * *

a/n:

* _pain perdu_ is the French name for French toast (eggy bread), using up stale bread soaked in an eggs/milk/cinnamon mixture and fried. Apparently it was around in the 17th century and I figured it would be a cheap breakfast for our boys.

Sorry this one's a bit shorter but the next chapter is nearly ready and will be up tomorrow, when things really begin to hot up.

Forgot to say, this is unbeta'd so please let me know what you think, like, dislike - I would be very happy to have your feedback!


	3. Chapter 3: Unravelling

_Author's Note: I must apologise for forgetting to warn you of the cliff hanger yesterday. It was (mostly) unintentional to end it that way - it just fitted. Honest. Not quite so cliffy today but - well, not much comfort around either._

 **Chapter 3: Unravelling**

Crack! A musket ball whistled past his left ear as he stumbled onto his feet. He brought his own pistol up and fired at his attacker but he was moving too fast and missed. He caught a whirl of movement to his right as Athos drew his rapier and engaged one of the Spanish guards; the other lunged towards d'Artagnan who had dodged backwards to give himself time to draw his own sword. As he engaged, Porthos burst through the internal doorway, blinked for a second at the chaotic scene, then hurled himself towards the courtier who had reloaded his pistol and was bringing it up towards where Athos and d'Artagnan were now fighting side by side near the window. As the gun went off d'Artagnan heard a cry but had no time to see who had been hit, having his hands full with the Spanish soldier who was fighting fiercely and skilfully. D'Artagnan caught a glimpse of Hernán, holding the Queen's arm above her elbow and yanking her towards the door to the external staircase. His momentary lapse of concentration gave his opponent an opening and he felt a stinging pain in his left bicep as the Spanish blade sliced into his leathers. Hastily he blocked a second swipe, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm and driving his opponent backwards steadily with a series of ringing blows.

"Get the Queen!" he heard Athos shout over the din and confusion, and saw Porthos scrambling towards Hernán as he reached the doorway. D'Artagnan redoubled his efforts and was finally rewarded when his opponent stumbled under the onslaught of his blows, allowing d'Artagnan to lunge forward and bury his sword in his opponent's belly.

He started towards the Queen – who was now flattened against the corner wall as Porthos grappled with Hernán – where was his sword? – but a new commotion to his left claimed his attention. Snapping his head around he saw Athos straddling the body of his first target, now fighting two new opponents (the ones guarding the carriage? In which case where was Aramis?). And finally, in all the swirling confusion, d'Artagnan could see Constance who was making her way towards the Queen, dodging flailing arms and ducking slashing swords.

For a moment he dithered. Help Athos, protect Constance, or get the Queen to safety? Knowing where his duty lay he turned back to the Queen, reaching her in one swift stride and pulling her towards the balcony door where he hoped Aramis would be waiting. Keeping his body between her and the room he pulled the door open and started to bundle her outside – just as another Spanish guard reached the top of the stairway.

There was a startled squeak from the Queen as d'Artagnan snatched her back towards him again, looking quickly over his shoulder to see where the greatest danger lay and seeing - (Christ, was there no end to this mess?) - Hernán wrenched himself free from Porthos' stranglehold and step towards the doorway, sword in hand. Meaning d'Artagnan and the Queen were now caught between Hernán and the newly arrived guard in the balcony doorway.

As the guard in front of him raised his pistol d'Artagnan plucked his throwing blade from his belt and said a hasty prayer in his head as he launched it perilously close to the Queen of France's left ear before seeing it bury itself in the startled guard's throat. D'Artagnan grabbed the Queen's hand as the guard toppled backwards over the stair rail, with a quick "My apologies, your Majesty," as he pulled her away from the doorway again, her body unresisting and her face frozen in shock. Another quick check over his shoulder and a flood of relief as he saw Constance emerging behind him, her own dagger flashing in her hand. "Constance, thank God. Get her downstairs to Aramis". He spared a moment to check the yard, with another surge of relief as he saw Aramis struggle to his feet amidst a pile of bodies. How many of these bastards were there, he wondered fleetingly, but he could see no further danger as the two women started shakily down the staircase.

Turning quickly he launched himself back into the fray, finding Athos still trading blows with two guards, Hernán groaning on the floor in the far corner and Porthos standing, hands on knees, dripping blood from a head wound and looking dazed. D'Artagnan moved quickly to finish one of Athos' opponents then turned to help Porthos as Athos downed the final man.

"Let's go!" Athos shouted, blade still in hand as he made for the staircase. D'Artagnan pushed a wobbly Porthos ahead of him, sweeping a final glance around the room for good measure. And froze, as he saw Hernán raise a crossbow towards the retreating Musketeers.

"Move!" d'Artagnan shoved Porthos unceremoniously through the doorway and hurled himself after him... to be jerked to a halt as white-hot pain shot through his right foot as he crashed to the floor.

"Jesus!" The pain was instant and like nothing he'd felt before. He tried to roll to his feet but his foot was held in a vice-like grip. Struggling to see back into the gloom of the room he saw Hernán rising to his feet and belatedly realised why he couldn't move as he saw, with a lurch of his stomach, the gleam of the crossbow bolt where it skewered his foot to the floor.

He heard Athos shouting again, and a more distant warning from Aramis, and felt Porthos clamber from under him where they had both landed in a heap in the doorway, but he was helpless to move and speechless with pain. Porthos grabbed at his arm in an attempt to haul him to his feet, growling "Gotta go, whelp!" but d'Artagnan could only gasp an agonised "Porthos!" in answer as the tug on his body just sent the pain in his foot sky high and his vision blackened.

Suddenly Porthos cottoned on and uttered an oath as he saw both the reason for d'Artagnan's incapacity, and the new threat as Hernán worked to reload his crossbow. Without ceremony or apology, Porthos leaned over d'Artagnan as he lay prone and helpless, and yanked firmly on the top of the bolt where it jutted out from his boot. D'Artagnan couldn't stop a raw cry of agony but Porthos took no notice, tugging again until the bolt came free from the floorboards. He instantly dragged d'Artagnan backwards onto the balcony, heedless of the pain caused as the protruding end of the bolt caught on the wooden floor. D'Artagnan's vision faded to grey as he struggled to remain conscious, trying to tell Porthos to stop, to leave him, anything to stop the awful pain.

Suddenly the world tilted and his stomach clenched again as he struggled to make sense of his vision as everything floated and swooped around him. Belatedly he could feel Porthos' arms under his knees and realised his burly friend had scooped him up and was carrying him in his arms as he ran down the staircase shouting to his brothers.

Breathless with pain, d'Artagnan saw the women ducking down in an abandoned vegetable cart, Athos standing protectively at the back and Aramis to one side, both now fighting yet more guards. "Get him in and go!" instructed Athos tersely as he ducked a wild swipe from a Spaniard. Porthos dumped d'Artagnan in the front of the cart and went to climb up but had to duck as a sword whistled through the air where his head had been an instant before. Hurling the reins at d'Artagnan he screamed at the lad to get going and turned himself to help Athos who was now battling with three guards at once.

d'Artagnan felt as if he was moving through treacle as he pushed himself upright and flicked the reins urgently, shouting "yar!" hoarsely at the startled horse in the shafts. "Get on!" he urged again, and – already upset at all the battle surrounding him in the yard – the sturdy beast needed no further encouragement but took off at a ragged gallop, sending guards hurtling out of the way as the three of them escaped the melée and headed up the track to the road.

* * *

D'Artagnan's breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to balance himself at the front of the rattling, rolling cart in their headlong gallop along the pitted road. His right foot sent waves of red-hot pain shooting up his leg at every jolt, and thick red blood was steadily pooling in the foot well. He continued to urge the poor draught horse onwards at a breakneck speed, only too aware that the yard had been full of reinforcements as they escaped. He couldn't fathom what was going on, who was attacking them or why, he only knew that he had to get the women away and safe – and that his grip on consciousness was slender.

Suddenly a pair of warm hands closed over his on the reins. Startled he looked up into Constance's dark eyes, seeing a flicker of a smile from her as she clambered precariously into the front of the cart and fell onto the seat next to him. Gladly, he relinquished the reins and used his hands to brace himself so he could take the weight off his foot. "We need to get that out and stop the bleeding," Constance shouted over the din of panicking hoof-beats and the madly creaking cart.

"We have to get to safety first. I'll be fine," he answered her automatically. She rolled her eyes but carried on flicking the reins on the horse's broad back to encourage him. Already he was flagging, unused to such a fast pace, sweat flying from his mouth and flanks. Constance noticed it too and shot him an anxious glance. "He can't go much further; we need to stop!"

D'Artagnan had twisted to watch the road behind them and cast a reassuring smile at the Queen, who was clinging to the side of the cart with white hands and trying not to wince as she was flung around on the uneven road. "Ok, we've left them behind but we need to get off the road; who knows how many more there are around!" he shot back at her. As the horse slowed to a canter then a rough trot, she exclaimed in annoyance, then spotted a small track leading off to the left and quickly yanked his head round just in time to rattle off the road.

The noise of their headlong escape reduced as their speed slowed. After a hundred yards or so she looked around then brought them to a halt in a small glade. Anxiously d'Artagnan looked back but realised to his relief that the road was already out of side, hidden by the trees surrounding their path. "Your Majesty, are you okay?" he asked her, starting to rise then falling back with a yelp as his foot gave way beneath his weight.

"I am well, thank you," she said carefully, as if trying to remember how to speak. He smiled again at her, noticing her pallor, and realising that all of this had happened in less than ten minutes. He was, sadly, rapidly getting used to things going pear-shaped in moments, but this was new to the Queen and she was struggling to process everything that had just happened.

A tug on his leg snapped his head around, to find Constance kneeling and starting to slice through his boot. "Constance, no, stop!" he exclaimed.

"Don't be such a baby," she admonished him.

"I'm not, it's just that's my favourite boot!" he protested. Too late; her sharp blade had made quick work of it and she peeled the leather carefully away from his calf and the horrible bolt skewering his foot. "Ahh!" he swore softly as the movement jostled the bolt. "I'm pulling it out," Constance stated calmly as she ripped a strip off the bottom of her skirt and wrapped it firmly around the bolt to stem the bleeding. The pain was so intense that d'Artagnan was rendered incapable of speech and she took his silence for agreement. Grasping the bolt in one hand she pushed down on the top of his foot with the other, and tugged.

Everything dimmed around him for a second time as he struggled to deal with the pain that swept through him. He was dimly aware of further jostling, female voices and gentle orders, then a stronger tug on his foot, an awful sucking noise and tearing sensation, and then blissful oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4: On Their Own

_A big thank you to everyone who is following or has favourited this story, and especially to those who have taken the time to leave a review - glad you are enjoying it! To Debbie (guest so I can't reply directly) I promise this really is my first story on any site. It's been a long time brewing in my head but it's harder than I thought to get the pacing and amount of detail right. Let me know if I get it wrong... Things go from bad to worse today and as this chapter's title suggests, it'll be a while before they are all reunited, but don't worry, we will catch up with Athos, Porthos and Aramis again soon. Warning: slight cliffie ahead. Only it's not an actual cliff, more of a ... well, you'll see._

 **Chapter 4: On their own**

It was only moments before he was conscious again, Constance reassured him when she saw the distress in his eyes. He was suspicious, seeing that they had padded the wound on top and bottom of his foot and bandaged it firmly since he was last aware. He was also pretty sure the Queen had assisted in the removal of the bolt, going by his disjointed memories just before losing his battle to stay conscious, but he decided that was too embarrassing to contemplate and he preferred not to know for sure.

"Help me up," he ordered tersely, ignoring the rise of Constance's eyebrow at his tone. He couldn't seem to get his brain in gear and had no time for niceties. He grabbed his pistol and reloaded it quickly, trying to control the trembling of his fingers. They were still in danger and he needed to be ready to defend them – a fact that became only too clear in the next instant, as a horse appeared from the direction of the road, and a shout of " _Estan aqui_!"* went up, leaving him in no doubt that the rider was Spanish – and was looking for them.

Looking frantically around, he spotted a small pathway leading away from the glade, and simultaneously his sword which was rolling around in the foot well of the cart. "Quick! Head that way," he ordered, handing his pistol to Constance even as he staggered to his feet and groped for his sword. Constance opened her mouth – to argue, he could see it in her eyes – but he had no time. "Go! Get the Queen to safety! I'll catch you up," he promised, and pushed her firmly out of the cart as the soldier leapt off his horse, drawing his blade as two more mercenaries followed him into the glade.

Constance dragged the Queen hastily away from the cart and down the track. One of the newcomers headed their way as a fourth arrived in the glade shouting orders. D'Artagnan stayed on the cart, knowing his only chance against multiple opponents, and with an injured foot, was to keep the height advantage which the Spaniards were stupidly giving up by dismounting. The disadvantage was that his legs were vulnerable, being the only part the mercenaries could easily reach, and he quickly felt the bite of a blade in his thigh before he managed to bury his blade in the chest of the first soldier and turned to fend off the returning swipe from the second man.

The fourth man had stayed on his horse, no doubt assuming d'Artagnan would succumb to the double onslaught, but dismounted and rushed to join the fight when the first man fell to d'Artagnan's blade. Suddenly there was the sound of a distant gunshot in the direction the women had taken, and the officer skidded to a halt, turning as if to follow the sound. D'Artagnan was flagging, feeling waves of pain shuddering up both legs now, and gasping for breath with every blow he traded, but knew he wouldn't get a second chance. Gritting his teeth he lunged forward, putting all his weight on his right leg, but using the extra reach this gave him to land a killing blow on his opponent. Before the body had even hit the ground d'Artagnan had reached for his main gauche and sent it hurtling towards the leader's back as he started towards the woodland path the woman had followed. There was a satisfying thunk, a last gasp, and he too sank to his knees before pitching forward.

For a moment all d'Artagnan could hear was the ragged sound of his own breathing as he gasped for air, and the thunder of his heart in his chest. Slowly and carefully he lowered himself to the ground and wobbled over to retrieve his dagger from the Spaniard's body. As he straightened, he heard more shouts coming from the road and, with a lurch of new adrenaline, realised he had only seconds before their glade would be invaded again. Quickly he sheathed his weapons, grabbed the cartier's water skin from the driving seat, and hobbled as fast as he could down the narrow path through the trees after the women.

A short way down the meandering pathway, d'Artagnan's relief knew no bounds when he came across the body of a soldier. He'd heard the gunshot but had no way of knowing who had fired it or whether one of the women had been hit. He paused briefly to collect the man's pistol and shot pouch from his body, then carried on as fast as he could manage. Every time his right foot touched the ground a wave of pain flooded up his leg, as if he was stepping on a red-hot knife, but he had no choice but to continue and try to block out the pain. His body throbbed from the hits he'd taken, including the cut on his left thigh and the one in his upper arm which he'd received in the fight back at the inn, but he gritted his teeth and ploughed on.

The sound of the river grew louder and suddenly he was out of the trees and facing the very welcome sight of the two women, Constance standing in front of the Queen with his pistol pointed determinedly at his head as he emerged. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and limped rapidly towards them, holding out a hand to stop Constance as she dropped her firing stance and gathered her skirts to run to meet him, huge smile on her face.

"Stay there, we need to move. There are more on the way," he instructed her tersely, and she stopped in her tracks, turning uncertainly to the Queen who hovered behind, looking equally lost.

"There's a pathway there, I think it leads to that bridge," the Queen pointed upstream.

D'Artagnan hesitated, looking quickly around then started to move the way she pointed, seeing their only other option was a tiny gap in the thick brambles growing between the trees and the river bank. "Quickly then," he admonished – but then stopped so suddenly that Constance, who was reaching behind her to catch the Queen's hand, bumped into him, nearly knocking him flying.

"Sorry," she apologised, then: "what's wrong?"

He cocked his head, listening intently. "There!" He hadn't been sure, but now he heard it again: the sound of distant shouts – men's shouts, in Spanish – upstream, in the direction of the bridge. "Damn it!" he swore under his breath, then turned and caught Constance's hand without thinking. "This way, come on."

He headed determinedly into the brambles, trying to follow the tiny animal path he'd spotted. Within seconds they were all scratched as they became embroiled in the thick brambles. The women suffered more as their dresses became caught repeatedly, until Constance dropped both the hands she was clasping and used hers to gather her skirts tightly up around her waist. D'Artagnan cast her an approving glance then forged on through the tangle of briars, trying to ignore the flash of the Queen's ankles he had just glimpsed as she, more hesitantly, followed Constance's lead.

After what felt like hours they finally fought their way clear of the brambles, to find themselves teetering on the edge of the river. This was their first glimpse of the water itself, and it was not encouraging, as it was wide here – as wide as the courtyard at the Garrison – and flowed rapidly around some large boulders. Miniature whirlpools suggested more boulders under the water. D'Artagnan searched quickly around but the brambles carried on even more thickly after this one stony clearing, and he feared they would just entrap themselves if they carried on that way. But the river... could they cross it?

"Can you swim?" he muttered to Constance, shoving the pilfered Spanish pistol into his belt, tying the water skin firmly to his belt, then dropping to the ground and sliding his legs cautiously over the overhanging bank. He drew his sword and dipped it into the eddying waters to test the water's depth. At the edge here it was only inches deep but when he reached further out his sword disappeared up to the hilt.

"Yes, and so can the Queen," replied Constance staunchly, trying not to let her voice tremble. She was rewarded with one of his flashing grins which warmed her heart.

"Okay. I'll go first. Your majesty, you need to hold on to my belt and don't let go." He eyed the Queen dubiously as she stood looking dishevelled, hair tugged out of place and scratches marring her beautiful skin. "You'd better take your shoes off. Give them to me," he ordered, forgetting all propriety in his haste.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"They won't stay on in the river," he explained more kindly.

She could see the sense of that; her shoes were delicate cloth court shoes, totally useless in these conditions. She bent and slipped them off, handing them obediently to d'Artagnan who tucked them inside his jacket, then held out his hand to the Queen. "If we can get across without being seen..."

He didn't finish his sentence. His meaning was clear and in any case he was suppressing a gasp as he slid his feet – one still booted – into the muddy water at the river's edge. It was cold! Glancing quickly to right and left he reassured himself that they were currently unobserved, then turned to assist the Queen down into the river. She shuddered as the water slid up to her knees, and grabbed his hand tightly where before she had merely placed her fingers very correctly on his palm. He tried to give her a reassuring smile but wasn't sure he'd pulled it off. "Ready?"

Constance slid down behind the Queen, managing to suppress her own gasp at the shock of the water temperature, and reached out for his belt. "Ready," she nodded. She'd stuffed his pistol into her own waistband, he noted appreciatively, leaving her other hand free for balance. His feet were rapidly numbing and he knew he had to get going so he smiled again at them both and turned to pick a path across the tumbling waters. "Small steps," he cautioned over his shoulder. "Feel for a safe foothold with your toe, before putting your weight on it."

He'd kept his sword in hand and was using it to prod the river bed ahead of them, wary of unseen dips or loose boulders, and wincing at the misuse of his beloved weapon. They edged forward towards the deepest part of the river. Still no watchers on either shoreline that he could see. He was aiming for a bed of reeds on the far bank, which gave onto more open terrain with little cover. He hoped they could shelter out of sight in the reeds whilst sorting out shoes and weapons once they were across.

He looked back at Anne's white, frightened face as she held tightly to his belt with one hand, with Constance's hand gripped in the other. The water was up past his waist now, tugging fiercely at his legs with every step and filling his remaining boot, and he realised to his chagrin that the water reached much higher on Anne, and she was struggling. Even as he thought this, she wobbled, her feet slipping on the slippery rocks that formed the river bed, and suddenly she was engulfed in the muddy waters. "Hold on to me!" he shouted, letting go of his sword without a thought so he could grab for her other hand and pull her to him, struggling to keep his own balance against the pull of the water and the sudden weight as she flung her free arm around his waist and clung, eyes wide with panic.

He wrapped his left arm around her body and held her firm. "It's okay, I've got you," he reassured her, trying to sound calm. As if anyone could feel calm, stuck halfway across a racing river with Spaniards all around and the Queen of France clinging to him – her life, literally, in his hands.

Constance was wobbling now, both arms outstretched for balance now that she was no longer anchored, through the Queen, to him. He held his breath as she took a cautious step, then another, and caught up to them. "Hold onto my belt," he ordered her, checking the river banks again as she complied.

He now had the Queen on his left and Constance close to his right side, and moved off again, trying to hurry without making any mistakes, but he no longer had the sword to help him balance, the river was stronger here in the centre, and he couldn't feel his feet at all. The Queen's feet were scrabbling for purchase at his left, and Constance was slipping and sliding on his right, and when it all finally went wrong, it was really no surprise at all.

With a small cry Constance stumbled and disappeared under the water. Without thought he lunged at the place where she should be. His fingers brushed something delicate and he grabbed it, pulling strongly, and for a wonderful moment he thought it would all be okay as he found Constance's hand rising out of the water. And then his own foot slipped as he tried to balance all three of them on the tumbling river bed, and suddenly he was under water himself, the roar of the river all around him, mocking him and invading his nostrils and lungs as he scrabbled and kicked his way back upright.

His head burst free of the water and, somehow, he still had hold of both women, but they were all now being swept downstream with the current, and any tiny sense of relief at being able to breathe again was instantly crushed as he saw a massive boulder looming ahead of them. Water boiled around its base as the river split. The current was too fast, too strong and there was no time to avoid it; he had only seconds before they would be dashed against the gleaming, leering rock.

Instinct kicked in and he started to twist to keep his body between the Queen and the terrifying granite boulder. He had no choice – any other position and they would both hit it face on, or she would hit first and his body would slam into her, which was unthinkable. But even as he twisted, he realised he would have to let go of Constance, who was being dragged along at his right side. In that last second his eyes caught hers and he knew, he _knew,_ she was fully aware of what had to be done.

There was no more time. All he could do was push on her outstretched arm as he released her hand, hoping against hope that the extra momentum would carry her past the rock. He had a split second to twist his body fully round and bring his right hand to protect the Queen's face, then there was no more thought, just pain, awful blinding pain as they slammed into the rock and he took the full force of the river and their combined weight on his back and shoulder. His head bounced off the rock, he couldn't breathe, there was water all around him, sucking him down, cutting him off from the world, bubbling and roaring around him.

* _Estan aqui_ : Here they are!


	5. Chapter 5: Aftermath

_A/N major panic when I discovered I'd deleted this chapter by mistake! LOL (Yeah, you're right, not really.) Fortunately I found an old draft which had it intact, phew!_

 _Question: Tomorrow's chapter is longish and it would work really well as two shorter ones (yes, okay, it would then have a little cliffie in it, but isn't it good to push your heart rate up a little each day?) Or would you rather have a longer chapter with a sedate ending (not end of the story though, plenty more to go), which would give your fingernails a chance to recover?_

 _Another question: I've had a comment about using words like Jesus, God and Christ as swear words or exclamations. Hadn't realised how much they cropped up until it was pointed out to me. So I've cleaned it up but that left me with a dilemma, as sometimes "Oh, bother!" just doesn't do it. Spent an interesting half hour delving into literary websites devoted to the history of swearing, but to be honest the genuine 17th century profanities are worse, to my ears, involving lots of, um, body part and function naming... So I've settled for swearing in French where the boys really feel stressed. Do you want a translation? Somehow it sounds ok in French (to me) but less acceptable in English so I don't really want to translate everything. Can you just use your imaginations (or google translate if you are curious?) I promise there isn't much but these guys deal with death and maiming, so I think the odd exclamation would be in character. Please let me know if I offend anyone._

 _Now, where did we leave them? Oh yes, d'Artagnan is in trouble in the river, isn't he? I wonder how that works out (hehehe)... but first we're back with the Inseparables for a bit. What do you think? Are they panicking yet? ;)_

 **Chapter 5: Aftermath**

It had taken much longer than Athos wanted to sort out the mess at the Pheasant Inn. For one thing, he needed to interview the innkeeper to establish whether he had been a co-conspirator: but the man was so angry at the uproar in his inn, the damage to his furniture, the injury to his wife (who had been pushed to the ground during the initial invasion of the pub) and the outrage of the cartier whose horse and cart had been appropriated for the escape of the Queen... By the time he had finished venting his fury at the King, Queen, Spain, musketeers and anyone else he thought to blame for the violence of the morning, Athos was convinced of the man's innocence. No one could act that amount of righteous anger!

Once they had checked the Inn and its environs and assured themselves there were no further Spaniards lurking, Aramis took stock of their situation. Porthos' head wound was not severe, being the result of a glancing blow from a pistol rather than a musket-shot as Aramis had first feared. He used Porthos' headscarf to bind his forehead, much to Porthos' indignation when he knew the medic had perfectly good linen bandages in his saddlebags. But Aramis was frantic with worry and desperate to find the others.

Porthos knew Aramis had his own injuries – he could see the dribble of blood drying on his hand and the tear in his doublet over his right shoulder – but Aramis brushed off his enquiries and carried on saddling the horses as fast as he could. Porthos huffed but let it go; he too was worried about the rest of their party, especially given d'Artagnan's injury. The others hadn't seen it clearly in the chaos, but Porthos had, and whilst he knew it was probably not life-threatening, he also knew d'Artagnan would be in terrible pain and unable to walk. How could he defend the women on his own? So he turned a blind eye to Aramis' wound, and silently took charge of the bodies of their attackers, stacking them unceremoniously in an outbuilding.

Meanwhile Athos, once he had calmed the innkeeper and paid their bill, plus a hefty retainer for him to stable the remaining three mounts until their return, and a sum to cover the damages to the inn (to be reimbursed by the King, Athos hoped), had hastily scribed a report to Tréville asking for swift reinforcements to be despatched, and gave the note to the innkeeper. A further fee had to be negotiated for this to be delivered to Paris by the innkeeper's nephew, and finally, nearly an hour after the last renegade had been knocked to the ground, they were ready to leave.

They were all fully aware of the danger that d'Artagnan and the women were in as they escaped the inn. Porthos was sure he'd seen a couple of men taking off after the cart within a minute or two of their escape. Aramis was almost beside himself with worry and nearly had to be physically restrained by from taking off after them on his own. Athos was determined not to split their number any further especially if more bandits were around, which seemed likely from the reports of the innkeeper and stable boy that the area had been host to bands of armed men – mostly disillusioned French workers and farmers but with some suspected Spaniards amongst them – for the past few weeks.

As they mounted up, Athos was tight with fury that he had simply accepted the Queen's word that this was an innocent rendezvous, and there had not been time, between the Queen's summons and their departure, for Tréville to arrange for the area to be scouted. Would d'Artagnan now be paying the price for this complacency?

The three men set off at a fast canter, riding in silence for the first couple of miles, but expecting to catch up with the others or find them waiting by the roadside within a few miles. Gradually, though, their anxiety increased as the minutes ticked by with no sight of the cart. They all scoured the margins of the road as well as looking ahead, longing to see a flurry of dust or a dark smudge in the distance around every bend, but to no avail. After several more miles Athos pulled his sweating horse to a halt and turned to face the others as they clattered to a halt behind him.

"How far do you think we've come?" he enquired, working hard to keep his voice calm and his face neutral.

"Three or four miles, I'd say," offered Aramis.

"At least!" opined Porthos succinctly. "We should have caught up with them by now!"

"Indeed," Athos agreed, sounding ridiculously calm.

Porthos glared at him. "Well, what now? Do we go back? They must have stopped by now, there's no way that horse could have pulled the three of them and the cart at full gallop for long."

Aramis' mare was dancing on the spot, reflecting her rider's anxiety to get going. "We should split up," he urged. "We're wasting time!"

Athos ignored them both, motionless on his obedient stallion.

"Athos!" Porthos sounded as desperate as they all felt.

"I'm going on," said Aramis, decisively, and whirled his mare to face north again.

"Hold!" ordered Athos quietly.

"What? Come on, man, we need to find them!"

"I am aware of that," Athos virtually spat the words out, turning to glare at Aramis. "However we will save time if we have a sensible plan rather than charging off like headless chickens!"

Aramis managed to snap his jaw shut on whatever response he was considering, as he saw the anguish in Athos' countenance. He let out an explosive sigh, then tried valiantly to compose himself. Athos was right.

"What's the plan then?" Porthos urged his rangy cross-breed closer to Athos.

Athos drew a deep breath, wishing he had a better idea. "You're right, Porthos; we must have missed them. Either they turned off the road – or were forced off. Either way we should find some traces if we head back more slowly towards the Pheasant. Let's go!"

The three proceeded at a steady pace back towards the inn. Athos and Porthos took one side of the road each, straining their eyes for the slightest sign on the soft verges, while Aramis, ever impatient, ranged back and forth ahead of them, scanning every inch of the track.

Eventually, when Athos was worrying that they would soon be in sight of the inn again, Aramis let out a yell. "Here!"

The others raced to join him where he had leapt off Fidget to scrutinise the verge. "A small path, and wheels have passed this way recently; the tracks are very fresh."

Athos slid off Roger and led him forward, pulling his pistol from his belt. The others glanced at one another and followed suit silently. A minute later Athos had let out an exclamation and dropped Roger's reins, running forward into the small clearing where the cart stood abandoned and surrounded by bodies. A surge of adrenaline hit Porthos as he followed, eyes dancing from one body to the next looking for – fearing to see – the familiar scuffed brown jacket. "Thank God," he breathed, when he realised d'Artagnan was not lying on that forest floor.

Aramis had already pushed past, sparing a scathing look at the dray-horse which was standing, hind foot cocked, half dozing in the morning sun after all the excitement. "Bloody animal couldn't even raise a whinny when we rode past the first time!" he muttered. But Porthos noticed him offering a quick pat to the valiant animal which had, after all, got the Queen safely away from the carnage at the inn.

Aramis scouted quickly around the glade as Athos finished examining the three bodies. "More Spanish," he remarked succinctly, having checked the contents of their purses. Porthos grunted, unsurprised, but focussed on what clues the wagon offered up. "Lot of blood here," he commented, poking at the slatted floor of the driver's bench. "And some threads of material."

"His boot is over there." Athos pointed at the shredded brown leather and Porthos gulped, remembering the awful sight of the bolt pinning d'Artagnan's foot to the floor of the inn and the lad's desperate look as he realised he couldn't move.

"I reckon they pulled over to deal with the bleeding, get the boot off and bind the wound."

"They may not have realised they were being pursued," agreed Athos.

"What if they had no choice about stopping though – with that amount of bleeding, d'Artagnan was at risk of losing consciousness. Or one of the others could have been wounded..." Aramis had rejoined them to cast his expert eye over the cart, sounding more worried than ever.

"No blood in the back," Porthos pointed out.

"We're wasting time. Three bodies here, who's to say there weren't more attackers?" Athos reminded them, starting his own search of the glade's perimeter.

"Ok, so they've patched d'Artagnan up, they think they're safe here but then the Spaniards catch up with them. D'Artagnan fights them off..." Porthos tried to work out what might have happened.

"... or Constance," Athos interjected, remembering how handy she was getting with the sword.

"Yeah..." Porthos sounded dubious and Athos cocked an eyebrow at him, encouraging him to continue working out the likely scenario. "I don't think d'Artagnan would have kept the girls here in a fight. He'd have sent them out of harm's way. If there was time," he added.

"They had time," Aramis said slowly. When the others looked at him, he pointed at the cart. "There was a water-skin hanging there. I remember feeling hot, waiting in the yard, before everything kicked off. I was wondering if the driver would mind me taking a sip. It's not there anymore."

"It could have fallen off," Porthos cautioned, but he sounded more cheerful as they all searched again for a sign of the direction the fleeing trio might have taken out of the glade. There were numerous small pathways, worn no doubt by the forest animals in their nightly wanderings. But Aramis' keen eyes spotted fresh footprints a short way down one wider path which led towards the sound of distant water. "Here – this could be them!" he called, pointing out boot prints and a couple of marks that could have been a lady's more delicate toe prints.

"Only one problem," rumbled Porthos. "d'Artagnan only had his left boot on. That print there is definitely a right boot print."

" _Merde_!" Aramis exclaimed, cocking his pistol and sprinting off down the path, the others close on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6: Taking Stock

_Thank you for all the reviews and comments, especially to the guest reviews who I can't reply to directly. I receive all your comments gratefully and they have helped me to shape the story. Longer chapter it is, no cliffhanger!_

 **Chapter 6: Taking Stock**

He was cold. Very, very cold. And wet. Really wet. But mostly cold. Everything was stiff and most of his limbs felt like they didn't belong to him. His thoughts were splintered, fragmented. Images of rocks, and pale hands, and so much water... He remembered water flooding his face and numbing pain as he struggled with leaden legs to reach the bank, dragging... slowly his sluggish brain came to life ... the Queen!

With a shuddering gasp he opened his eyes and found himself looking into a pair of pale blue eyes. Her eyes were tight with panic, but they relaxed into a relieved beam when she saw him looking back at her. "Are you okay?" she asked, hesitantly.

He had an idea that he ought to be asking her that, but he couldn't formulate the words. Behind her head was only sky, and that didn't seem right. Where was he? His body was limp and unhelpful, giving him no information on whether he was floating on water or lying on the ground. Sound began to come back to his ears and he realised the river noise was still strong. He blinked, then flailed an arm around. Land it was, he thought, as his hand touched cold earth. Then there was no more thought, just tearing pain in his back and shoulder as he tried to push himself upright. "Argh!" he groaned.

"What is it? Are you hurt?" she demanded anxiously. The imperious tone of her voice yanked his mind reluctantly back into the grasp of his flailing consciousness. "I'm fine," he answered her automatically, still grappling with the fragmented memories of the recent past. The inn... an argument, the battle, fleeing in the cart - his foot! He couldn't feel his feet, either one, but looking anxiously the length of his legs he realised they were both still in the water. Trying to ignore the furnace in his right shoulder he struggled to a sitting position and pulled his feet out of the water and up the sloping river bank, noticing vaguely that he didn't appear to be wearing a boot on either foot now. He must have lost the other one in the river, but knew there were more important worries right now.

Quickly looking around, he realised they were well beyond the reeds he dimly remembered aimed for, but – thank God! – there were no signs of any black-garbed Spaniards along either river bank.

"Constance?" he asked - remembering too late that he should have asked after the Queen's health first. Then icy fear drove all other thoughts from his mind as he saw the Queen's expression.

"I don't know," she said softly.

He exploded upwards then, lurching upright then stumbling as he realised he had no control over his numb feet. More information percolated through even as he wobbled, grabbing gratefully at the arm the Queen offered him. His sword was gone, as was the pilfered Spanish pistol. He swore under his breath: was Constance similarly lost? Breath momentarily choked in his throat as he tried to gather his wits, along with his balance. He braced himself, hands on knees, until he felt able to speak.

"Are you hurt, Your Majesty? I'm afraid I don't remember much after we hit that rock."

"I am well, thank you. Rather wet, but unhurt. You protected me, and got us both to the river bank. I think you hit your head on the rock; you've been... unresponsive, for a few moments."

Belatedly he noticed she was clutching a bloodied piece of material in one hand. His hand explored the soreness in his face, wincing as his fingers found gouges in his right cheek and jaw. She must have tried to clean him up whilst he was pretty much out of it. He looked around, trying to judge how far they were from the bridge, but could see no sign of it. How far had they been dragged downstream?

His fear for Constance grew with every second that there was no sign of her. "We have to find Constance. She'll be ... downstream." He caught the Queen's hand, oblivious to protocol and started to pull her along with him, heart pounded, frantic to see Constance on the river bank but dreading seeing her still in the river.

"Wait!" The Queen pulled her hand away, startling him to a standstill. "I need my shoes." She indicated her bare feet, delicate blue-white skin treading unprotected on the grass.

"Your... ah!" He remembered stuffing them into his jacket, looked down, frowned, started digging his hands inside his jacket. It would have been comical if their situation weren't so desperate. Great, he thought. Not only have I nearly drowned the Queen, and lost my sword so I've no means to protect her, but now I've lost her shoes. A fleeting memory of the King, stumbling beside him in the chain gang a few weeks ago, flashed across his mind, followed swiftly by a reminder of the look on the King's face as he castigated the Musketeers after that particular adventure. What on earth would the King have to say about this?

He must have spoken this last thought out loud, or his expression had given him away, for the Queen unexpectedly giggled. "It doesn't bear thinking about, does it?" she confided to him.

He blinked. "You're not... cross?" He sounded plaintive even to his own ears.

She smiled, kindly. "It's not your fault. At least we're alive." Their thoughts both turned instantly to Constance and identical frowns creased their faces.

"I can carry you," he offered, his gaze drifting back to the river around the bend, the bit they couldn't see yet, the bit that might offer up Constance...

"Give me a minute." She started ripping at her skirt, yanking strips of material from the hem. He realised her intention and reached for his main gauche to help her, realising only as he did so that – unbelievably – it was still present in its sheath on his belt. His eyes closed in a moment of silent thanksgiving that, at least, he still had one weapon with which to defend them.

Between them they cut strips to length and he helped her to bind her feet with the sopping material, trying not to think about just how inappropriate it was for a man, effectively a servant of the Crown, to be kneeling so close and handling the royal appendage in this utterly familiar way.

When her feet were firmly encased she took an experimental step, declared her feet protected, and took hold of his arm. "Let's find Constance and get out of here," she said. It was not quite an order but he found himself wishing that it was, and that it would be that simple. Sadly he had a feeling they were far from safe yet.

Three river-bends later and now it was despair, rather than cold or pain, which was making his legs tremble. There had been no sign of her, and they had both fallen silent, stumbling and tripping along the uneven river bank more and more slowly. He could hardly bring himself to look, yet couldn't tear his eyes away from the tumbling grey water. It was moving more quietly now but still powerful and hypnotising, and he couldn't see how Constance could still be lost in it. Surely she could have swum to the shore by now, and if she hadn't ... why not? Had she hit the boulder or been swept safely past it? He didn't even know how strong a swimmer she was, had never asked, never seen her swim. What if...?

"There!" A glimpse of pale white in a tangle of tree limbs where a storm had felled a willow and toppled it into the body of the river. Without thought he broke into a run towards the tree, then remembered his duty and turned back to the Queen – to find her running nimbly alongside him, eyes fixed on the same spot in the river.

When they reached the spot where the tree roots had ripped the bank away, he fell to his knees and scrambled down to the water's edge. "Stay there!" he flung back over his shoulder, before plunging into the icy water and forcing his way through the tangle of branches towards her. For it _was_ her, he could be sure of that now; her dress floated free as the current tugged at it, but her torso was apparently caught in the upper branches where they rested, half submerged, in the river.

"Constance!" he called, rough-voiced and hoarse. "Constance!"

Her head moved. She was alive!

He fought towards her, slipped, grabbed a branch, found his feet again, and finally reached out to her as she turned her white face towards him, features twisted in some emotion he couldn't read. "d'Artagnan... what took you so long?" she breathed.

"Oh Constance!" He was choked with relief now, sobbing out her name, reaching for her hand.

"No! " Her voice was sharp with worry and his hand froze an inch from touching hers.

"I've hurt my arm. Please don't..." Her words were stuttering, and he realised she was stiff with cold, her teeth clenched to stop them chattering.

"Give me your other hand, then," he urged.

"I daren't let go!" she wailed fearfully, and he realised that her grip on the slender branches was all that was stopping her from being swept off down river again.

"I'll come around to your other side. Don't worry, just hold on just a little longer." He inched cautiously past her, found solid footing and gently eased her fingers from the branch she was gripping with desperate intensity. Carefully, aware of the current tugging at his wobbly legs, he helped her towards the bank then clambered past her so he could pull her up, catching her gently under her arms. The Queen hovered anxiously, then flung herself to her knees and reached out to check for injuries as Constance finally rolled onto her back on the bank.

d'Artagnan struggled up the bank, feeling exhaustion roll over him and noticing every ache and pain from the last few hours, but knowing that he couldn't afford to collapse now. They were still far from safe. Stifling a groan, he levered himself upright again, scanning quickly around for any observers and spotting some scrubby bushes nearby that would give them better cover. "We need to move; come on," he said, reaching out to help Constance up.

"She's injured!" The Queen looked shocked at the thought of moving Constance.

"It's only my arm, I can still walk!" Constance admonished the Queen gently, taking hold of d'Artagnan's arm with her uninjured right hand, and rising to stand on trembling legs. D'Artagnan offered his other hand to the Queen.

"Where are we going then?" she demanded to know, standing stiffly up and wrapping her arms around her sopping wet waist.

"We are very visible here. We'll get to cover then make a plan."

He led the two women to the bushes he had seen and found a bank of grass for them to sit on. "Let's have a look at your arm," he said softly to Constance.

As Constance reluctantly submitted her left arm to inspection by his gentle fingers, the Queen sighed, and bent to tear another strip off her skirt, offering it to d'Artagnan with a small smile. He took it gratefully and bound Constance's arm firmly, wincing at every gasp she made, but knowing it had to be done.

"It's broken, but it's in line and should heal well," he told her confidently, hoping she believed him. He'd watched Aramis check for broken bones many times, but never done it himself, so he hadn't a clue if it was a clean break or not. He only knew the limb was swollen under his touch, and it was hurting Constance, and that pained him greatly.

He looked at both women properly now, seeing cuts and scrapes but thankfully no major wounds aside from Constance's arm. However both looked pale and were trembling from cold, and he felt the crushing weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He needed to get the women somewhere safe and warm. But before he could judge where to find safety, he needed to know what was going on.

"Your Majesty, what happened at the Inn? Who are these men? What danger do they pose to us?"

Even kneeling on grass, in a river-soaked dress with a decidedly ragged hem, with mud-streaked complexion and chaotic hair, the look sent his way by the Queen was almost enough to have him instantly apologise for his temerity in questioning her. He only just stopped himself from offering an immediate apology. He needed to know and he must make her understand why.

"I ask, because we understood you were meeting your cousin. Your _13-year-old_ , _female_ , cousin. But when that man arrived in her stead, it seemed you were expecting him? Or at least, not surprised." He had first assumed that the man was the cousin's father or guardian, wondered if the girl had been too seasick during the crossing of the Bay of Biscay to face a long road journey to visit the Queen. After that, events had unfolded too quickly for him to think anything much, other than how to survive. But now he needed to know what they faced, and soon.

The Queen stared at him for an uncomfortable moment, then dropped her eyes and sighed. "I forgot, you were not present at the start of the meeting... he IS my cousin. I... wrote to him, when the King was captured by the slavers. Rochefort pressed me to write to my brother for help, but that letter was thankfully never sent because Louis was found in time." D'Artagnan marvelled at the Queen's ability to relate those events so remotely, as if they had nothing to do with him. But her halting explanation continued and he pushed away any feeling of being offended. Now was not the time.

"But it made me think of my family and how it would affect them if Spain came to war with France. I always got on so well with Hernán; he is much my age and was great fun. So I wrote to him and asked if we could meet. I had in mind that he could talk to my brother King Philip, and dissuade him from the notion of war, much as I am trying to do with Louis. It seems he... misinterpreted my suggestion, and came with an agenda of his own."

She paused, swallowing, and d'Artagnan suddenly realised that she must have been shocked at the turn of events. He hadn't seen the start of it, but his abrupt arrival through the window had offered him a glimpse of Hernán holding the Queen forcefully as she struggled.

"What is his intention, do you think?" he asked, gently. Constance flicked her gaze to him and he tried to read her expression. Concern for the Queen? Warning? He wasn't sure.

"How would I know? We didn't get that far before you burst in and everyone started fighting!" the Queen snapped. Ah. Warning, then. Was the Queen blaming him for what happened at the Inn? Had he been too hasty in bursting in; had he misheard, and made things ten times worse?

Constance saw the thoughts chasing across his face as clearly as if he'd spoken them, and she'd had enough. "That's unfair!" she told the Queen, firmly. "Hernán was trying to convince you to turn against Louis and ally with Spain. He suggested you could declare Louis unfit to rule, and join with Rochefort to discredit him. And when you were shocked and told him he was mistaken, he grabbed you and tried to force you to leave with him! How much further would you have let him go before wanting the Musketeers to intervene? Perhaps you wanted them to wait until he'd forced you into the carriage, or maybe not until you got to St Malo...?" She was relentless in her logic, and d'Artagnan winced at her boldness even as he struggled to keep up. So there was treason in the air, and he had been right to jump in. His brief sense of relief was chased away by a growing fear. Just how many men had Hernán brought?

He realised this was an important question and voiced it out loud. The Queen shook her head. "I don't know," she said in a small voice, then burst out: "Oh, _dios mio_ , what have I done?!"

"Hush, hush. It's done. Your musketeers will sort it all out, don't worry," Constance soothed her, looking up at d'Artagnan expectantly. D'Artagnan – sadly the only Musketeer around – almost grinned at her simple faith, before reality caught up with him again. He wrinkled his nose, having no idea how he was supposed to sort this out on his own. Again he was aware of his injuries and again he pushed the pain aside stubbornly, drew breath and tried to speak confidently.

"We need to meet up with the others, and until we can do that we need shelter so we can get warm." He looked around. "Wait here a moment."

He could see Constance opening her mouth and shot her a warning glance, knowing she would question how they were to meet up with the others, given that they didn't even know if the three Inseparables still lived, let alone where they currently were. A gush of fear gripped him at the thought that his brothers might have been injured, or worse, during the fight at the Inn.

Firmly squashing that thought he used the rush of adrenaline to propel himself to his feet and scout their surroundings. He detoured back to the river bank to check that they had left no traces that might betray their location to the Spaniards, belatedly realising he had failed to do this at the point where he and the Queen had exited the river. Too late now; they had come too far downstream. However...

As he stood looking at the scrapes of boots and fingers in the muddy bank that were too many to erase, and might tell a tale to a pair of experienced eyes, he found himself thinking of Porthos. Looking quickly around he saw only mud, grass and stones. Frowning he picked up a rounded river-stone and hefted it, then quickly found a few more. Stooping, he placed them on the bank, hesitated a moment, then turned decisively to head back to the women. He'd done what he could. All he could do now was try to keep the women safe – the rest was out of his hands.


	7. Chapter 7: Traces

_Tonight we catch up with both groups. Sadly they are not as good at catching up with each other..._

 **Chapter 7: Traces**

The Inseparables had found the body of the man shot by Constance on the woodland path, and took heart from the evidence that the trio were still alive and fighting back. But once at the river's edge, their optimism slowly faded. Athos had hoped to find them holed up somewhere close but there was no sign of them. Why had they not waited, once they'd defeated their attackers?

"Were there more than four men after 'em?" Porthos' question showed his thoughts were on the same track. Aramis didn't bother answering, fear hammering in his chest. "I'll check up here," he muttered, and disappeared up the wide track towards the bridge. Porthos exchanged a glance with Athos before following him a little more slowly. Without knowing the size of the force Hernán had brought with him, they couldn't assume that they had killed or injured all of his men. It wasn't safe for them to search alone.

Left at the river's edge, Athos searched methodically around its edges, thinking hard. If there were more than four, and some had followed them this far, how would d'Artagnan get away? Would he reload, and take a stand here? But there was no cover and he couldn't protect both women in this open space. For the first time, it properly dawned on Athos how tricky d'Artagnan's position was. Injured, no clue what was going on or how many Spaniards he faced, not knowing whether the others were on his heels, and trying to keep both his Queen and his beloved Constance alive against unknown odds. The lad was a good Musketeer but still inexperienced, and after their talk last night Athos knew d'Artagnan was doubting his own abilities. This was the worst position to find himself in, after what he had revealed last night.

Athos drew a deep breath to calm himself - and that's when he noticed the scrap of blue cloth caught in a bramble on the opposite side of the clearing. Heart racing, he examined it carefully. It could be... He whistled to the others, hoping they were still in earshot. And that no one else was. Belatedly reminding himself that there could still be more intruders, he scanned his surroundings and noticed, across the river, a couple of distant horseman. He crossed the glade quickly and held a cautioning hand up as the others ran into view, still watching the riders.

"What is it?" Porthos queried, breathlessly, as he and Aramis skidded to a halt beside Athos. He followed Athos' gaze.

"Do those men look like soldiers?"

"Hard to tell at this distance," Porthos answered.

"Is that why you whistled?" Aramis questioned impatiently.

"No. I found this," and he handed the scrap of material over to Aramis, knowing he would be better able to identify it than Porthos, if indeed it did match the Queen's dress. Aramis took it, and the look on his face told Athos everything.

"Where did you...?"

"Over here." Athos didn't wait for him to finish his sentence but strode back across the clearing and indicated the almost invisible path.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Aramis sounded almost cheerful as he started to wade into the brambles.

"Nothing your way?" Athos checked with Porthos as they followed the marksman.

"No, but there was a guard on the bridge and I'm willing to bet he's not French." Porthos said bluntly.

Aramis exclaimed ahead, and they hurried to catch up, cursing the thorns which slowed their progress. It was bad enough in leather; Athos hated to think what this path had done to the women.

"Another scrap – I think this is Constance's dress."

"Good." Athos saw Porthos' eyebrow rise. "At least we know we're close behind them. Even if they might be poorly dressed by the time we catch them up," he added drily. Porthos snorted behind him and Aramis looked surprised. Athos patted him on the shoulder, letting him know that they were all worried, but all in it together. Briefly, Aramis placed his hand on Athos'; it was both apology for his bad humour, and acceptance of the support Athos offered. Porthos nudged Athos from behind, and Athos smiled briefly at the welcome return of their wordless communication, something that had been lacking in recent weeks. Feeling oddly reassured, he set off through the brambles once again.

* * *

On the other side of the river, but now several miles away, d'Artagnan crouched in a ditch behind the thick hedge which lined a small track leading to a country mansion. Beside him he could sense the Queen vibrating with what could have been shivers of cold, but which he feared was more likely to be suppressed anger, and he grimaced, still wary after their recent argument. They had been walking for an hour or more, keeping to rough ground avoiding the main tracks. Admittedly he had no idea where he was heading for, but he was aiming roughly north then east, hoping eventually to rejoin the main Paris road well clear of the area around the inn. But he had underestimated the women's ability to travel, and both were soon flagging.

He couldn't blame them. Constance had the excuse of her arm – and he knew only too well how constant pain can drain your energy – and the Queen was struggling with tender feet protected only by a couple of layers of fine skirt material. Wet clothing rubbed and chaffed, and their limbs were stiff with cold from the icy river water. Even so, when they noticed the vegetation becoming cultivated and realised they'd stumbled on a substantial property, he had been surprised by the strength of the Queen's will as she demanded that they request help from the property's owners.

No matter how he argued that it wasn't safe to reveal themselves, that they didn't know if the Spanish had help in the area, and that he had thought he had heard French accents amongst those searching the river bank before they crossed, she was adamant. She'd had enough of scrambling around the countryside, and she was quite sure that whoever lived there would offer help to the Queen of France! He winced when she virtually hissed these last words at him, making it abundantly clear that it would be inadvisable to disagree with her.

"What are we waiting for?" she demanded, glaring at him. It was extraordinary how... majestic... she managed to appear even lying in a ditch, he mused. Then winced as Constance, lying on his other side, nudged him rather too vigorously in his sore ribs. "Ah... sorry, I was... distracted," he managed, swallowing. "You stay here. I'll check it out," he added, hastily, seeing the Queen opening her mouth again. He levered himself upright, suppressing a groan as the effort stirred up all his aches again.

Moving carefully and trying not to swear as he put his right foot on the ground and pain shot up his leg, he slid out from behind the hedge and checked the track. Clear. He took a deep breath, then limped unsteadily across the track and disappeared into some beech trees on the edge of the lawn opposite. The grass swept down to the back of the mansion and he was able to work his way from tree to tree until he was within a hundred yards of the imposing windows opening onto a raised stone-flagged patio. From here he had a good view of the stables to the right of the balcony, although he was uncomfortably aware that this would make him equally visible to any onlookers.

For a long time he simply watched and listened, propping his back against a sturdy tree-trunk to take the weight off his throbbing foot. Nothing looked out of place although he could see no movement either inside or outside the mansion. He still couldn't make himself approach the house though. He didn't know why but it felt... wrong.

"Well?" demanded an imperious voice at his elbow. He jumped, visibly, and nearly fell over as his foot hit the ground again. He hadn't heard them approach, damn it! He needed to be more alert. Adrenaline made him terse: "I told you to stay put!"

"You were taking too long. We need to get dry, we need clean clothes and food... what are you waiting for?" she snapped back, and stepped out from the shelter of the trees. He shot out an arm and snatched her by the elbow, then dropped his hand hastily as she glared at his hand, then raised her icy gaze to his eyes. "How dare you?" she hissed.

"I'm sorry, I apologise, Your Majesty, but it's not safe!" he implored her.

She hesitated. "What makes you think..." she started, then stopped as he held a hand up in a shushing gesture. "Do not shush me!" she said, outraged, then squeaked as he grabbed her arm again and yanked her back into the trees. She raised her free hand to slap him – he saw her draw it back, and winced in anticipation, but in that same second she heard what he had heard: the clatter of numerous horses approaching along the track. Her hand stopped in mid-air as she hesitated, switching her gaze from his face to see who was approaching. He took advantage, dragging her further back into the shade of the trees. Constance shadowed them and he shot her a look of thanks for the way she backed him up simply by being there.

"What is it?" the Queen asked, her voice sounding less sure now. He didn't need to answer as the cavalcade swept past them barely 50 yards away on the track. They could all see for themselves the dark garb and numerous weapons of the riders.

"Those are not servants, are they?" Constance whispered, unnecessarily, as the riders disappeared around the bend towards the mansion.

"Not like any servants I've seen. It's either a private French army... or more of your cousin's men." D'Artagnan didn't hide the bitterness in his voice. He needed the Queen to understand; they were not safe here, and to keep her safe, she had to trust his judgement. He turned back to her, noting the pallor of her skin and the black smudges under eyes but pushing away the moment of sympathy he felt for her. Now was not the time; they were horribly vulnerable here.

"We have to move. Now," he commanded, and this time she nodded her head, finally acquiescing.

* * *

The Inseparables had found where the three had crossed the river but Athos ruled it too dangerous for them to follow suit. Apart from the speed and depth of the water, he didn't like their odds if a mercenary spotted them half way across. Overruling objections from Aramis, who looked ready to hurl himself into the water, and Porthos who wasn't keen to do battle with the brambles again, he told them firmly that they would use the bridge to cross, and set off back towards the proper path.

"What about the guard?" Porthos enquired. "There's not much cover so it won't be easy to take him by surprise," he added.

"If he's still there, we'll think of something. One problem at a time."

"We could use d'Artagnan's tactic." Porthos chuckled, remembering how the young farm boy had dragged a reluctant Constance to the Red Guard encampment to act as a hooker in order to distract the guard.

"I'm not playing the hooker," Aramis quipped, with a grin.

Athos's lips twitched involuntarily at the mental image this conjured up. Plus it was good to have the real Aramis back, if only momentarily. He'd missed his ridiculous quips and banter recently. "Like I said, we'll think of something."

As it turned out, no one had to play the hooker. They'd been watching from the pathway for barely a couple of minutes before the guard had looked around then sauntered towards them, whistling to himself. A three-way glance had them scattering off the pathway to avoid detection, but the guard stopped at the first tree, checked around again, then started fumbling at his trousers. A gleam entered Porthos' eye and he vanished, moving incredibly silently for such a large man, then reappeared moments later behind the guard. There was a quick flurry of movement, then the guard was slumped on the ground, neck broken.

"Um..." Aramis sounded hesitant. Athos flicked him a glance as they stooped to drag the guard off the pathway into the undergrowth. "We are sure this chap's part of ... whatever is going on... are we? I mean, perhaps there's always a guard on that bridge, a French guard?" Porthos looked horrified at the thought that he might have killed a fellow Frenchman unnecessarily, then relieved as Athos plucked the man's money pouch off his belt and checked the contents. Spanish.

"Damn... how many of these guys are there?!" Aramis exclaimed.

"Too many," growled Porthos, cracking his knuckles.

"Let's go," Athos instructed, tersely.


	8. Chapter 8: Dusk

_Hope the slower pace of these chapters still grips you. Our boys (and girls) have a long way to go yet, and I admire endurance and coping with adversity, as well as in surviving physical trauma, so they're having a little breathing space. Mind you they've got plenty of problems - and I couldn't resist giving d'Artagnan a little something else to cope with tonight. Not too much though; he'll need all his strength in a few chapters. I hope you enjoy._

 **Chapter 8: Dusk**

They had argued, fiercely, about seeking help in a small hamlet they found after an hour of walking. Eventually Constance, fearing d'Artagnan's stubborn refusal would provoke the Queen's fury, took matters into her own hand and stalked down towards the first cottage, ignoring d'Artagnan when he hissed at her to come back. She had knocked with confidence on the door, sure that he was being unnecessarily cautious and that the village would be glad to help travellers in distress, even in ignorance of their true identities. She had therefore been stunned when, after knocking a second time, the door had finally opened a mere couple of inches to allow a disembodied voice to swear at her to go away, before slamming shut in her face.

She stomped back towards the other two where they lurked at the edge of the track. The Queen was all for going herself and demanding assistance, but Constance suggested they try a different dwelling, hoping they would have better luck elsewhere. But at the second house she had a similar response, and at the third no one answered her knock at all, even though she was sure she could hear movement inside.

"This is ridiculous!" exclaimed the Queen, crossly. She was shivering with cold in the fading light of the dank afternoon, and d'Artagnan felt another wave of anxiety. He knew they needed to find shelter soon, but he was spooked by the feeling of this place and positive, without understanding why, that they wouldn't find help here. His heart sank when she rounded on him again. "d'Artagnan, do something!" she commanded. It was remarkable how like King Louis she sounded at times, he noticed.

"Your Majesty, I think we need to try somewhere else..."

She cut him off. "I am tired, hungry, cold, wet, my feet hurt and I have had enough!" She emphasised each word with feeling. "What do you propose to do, if we can't find help?" she demanded to know.

"Um... " He didn't have an answer. Not for the first time, he wished fervently for Athos' reassuring presence, or Aramis' silver tongue, or Porthos' cheerful humour – any one of them would have dealt with this situation better than he.

"Oh!" the Queen stamped her foot impatiently and set off towards the next dwelling in the hamlet.

"d'Artagnan, do something!" Constance urged him, unwittingly echoing the Queen as she hurried to catch her up. Sighing, he limped after the two women, vowing that he would never again complain about guard duty at the Palace.

* * *

"What's that?" Aramis' sharp eyes spotted something on the river bank. Breaking into a run he skidded to a halt and crouched to examine something in the mud. "More thread!" he exclaimed as the others caught up.

Porthos checked the river bank, and announced that he could see foot and handprints, as if several people had pulled themselves out here.

Athos stood looking around, trying to think himself into their shoes. They would be wet, and the thread suggested the shredding of dress hems to deal with injuries. d'Artagnan would surely seek shelter but would it be safe here to do so? The number of mercenaries roaming this area seemed to suggest otherwise, but would d'Artagnan realise this? Injured, alone, and solely responsible for the Queen... He couldn't believe their young Musketeer was, yet again, in an impossible position trying to safeguard royalty on his own.

"Footprints lead off this way," announced Aramis, setting off downstream.

Athos sighed, then repressed a wince as Porthos encouraged him to follow with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Porthos frowned. "You okay?" he enquired.

"Never better," Athos intoned drily, moving off before Porthos could question him further.

* * *

The house looked deserted but the Queen was adamant they should still ask for help. "If there's no one there we can at least take shelter for the night," she said, wrapping her arms around her waist and suppressing a shiver. D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows at Constance, mutely asking if she would do the honours again. They had already discussed the fact that a strange man knocking on the door was even less likely to inspire an offer of help than a woman.

"I'll go," Constance offered pbligingly, and moved off before the Queen could decide to do it herself. There was no way d'Artagnan was letting her take any risks.

This time, to his surprise, the door opened straight away. He couldn't hear what was being said but eventually the door, once again, closed in her face and Constance turned to walk slowly back to where they waited out of sight.

"Well?" the Queen sounded anxious. "What did he say?"

"He said there are bandits around, and bad people, and everyone is frightened. He did give me some bread though," she said, reluctantly, knowing it wasn't much help but displaying the half loaf she'd tucked under her arm.

"Did you tell them who seeks their help?" The Queen sounded incredulous. "Surely if they know..." but before she could finish, d'Artagnan was grabbing her by the elbow and hauling her behind the bushes lining the track. "What are you doing?" she squeaked.

"Shush! Constance, quick!" he urged. He caught her by the hand and whisked her out of sight just as a pair of horsemen came into view. He pulled both women down to the ground and put an arm over both of them, hoping they hadn't been spotted.

"But those men could help," the Queen objected, starting to rise, but he yanked her back down.

"Wait!" he hissed at her. She still didn't get it. He could be wrong but the horsemen didn't look like farmers, definitely weren't Musketeers, and he wasn't about to saunter up to them and ask for help without knowing what language they spoke. Still glaring at each other, they all froze as they heard a sharp voice:

" _Busca en la casa. Prisa_!"*

The Queen's eyes widened in horror. D'Artagnan had picked up enough Spanish from Aramis to understand that they were searching the houses. A small gasp from Constance told him she'd got the gist of it, too. "If he'd let us in..." she whispered, shocked at how close they'd come to disaster. D'Artagnan hushed her, aware of the Queen's horrified expression.

The horsemen were close now and they heard one head down to the house Constance had just tried. The other stayed on the track, horribly close to where they were hiding. After a moment they heard a raised voice in the distance, and occasionally caught a few words of heavily accented French. "Women... if we find them... you tell your friends... we will know if you lie..."

d'Artagnan bit his lip. It confirmed his fears but he took no satisfaction in being proved right. If these bastards were roaming all over this area, it was disastrous for the three of them – and his brothers. They would not be able to seek help anywhere, and to accept it if it were offered would put others' lives at risk. He had no doubt what the mercenaries would do if they found anyone sheltering the fugitives. He shuddered at this last thought. Yes, they were fugitives now, but in their own country!

* * *

The Inseparables were feeling tired and discouraged as the daylight went. They found further disturbed mud on the bank downstream but had not been able to interpret the marks, unaware that this was where Constance had landed up. They'd carried on down the river bank for a while but eventually admitted they'd lost the tracks, headed back upstream, and finally spread out in the countryside beyond, separating and searching in vain for more tracks.

They had spotted the same mansion the Queen had wanted to approach, and seen the number of men coming and going. They stopped to watch for a time, fearing that perhaps the three had been captured and taken there. It was clearly some kind of base, but after half an hour Athos had decided they should move on. Aramis had argued fiercely in favour of searching the outbuildings but after overhearing two horsemen chatting as they headed away from the mansion he had acquiesced. Athos looked at him, raising an interrogative eyebrow. "They were fed up at being sent out to search again but 'the boss' wants the Queen found tonight before more Musketeers arrive," Aramis paraphrased what he'd heard.

"That would be nice," Porthos muttered. Glancing up he saw two sets of accusing eyes. "The extra Musketeers," he clarified, "not the capturing the Queen bit!" Hurrumphing to himself, he stomped off away from the mansion.

Aramis looked at Athos. "Do you think they know we've sent for help?"

Athos considered. "They may just be making an assumption. It's the obvious thing to do." He refused to voice a small fear that, perhaps, their message to Paris had been intercepted. Or that they had been betrayed. Either way, if no reinforcements were on their way, how on earth were the three of them supposed to find d'Artagnan and the women before the army of mercenaries did?

* * *

D'Artagnan was struggling. Constance could see it in every hobbling step he took, very hitch in his breathing when his injured foot touched the ground. The beautiful planes of his face were drawn, with lines of pain etched deeply in his unnaturally pale skin. It was drizzling steadily now, the clouds having swept in again from the west, but she was sure that the beads of moisture on his brow were from sweat as much as raindrops. She longed to comfort him, to put her arm around his waist and support his weight, to hold his hand and tease the strain from his eyes. But she worried that he would reject her, so she hesitated. He had been so distant, this journey – no, before that even, she amended. She knew why, of course; he told her he would respect her decision to stay with Bonacieux, and he was nothing if not honourable. But, oh! She wished just for once he would be less stubborn, and more needy, so she could wrap herself around him and smooth the worry and pain from his face.

The Queen was stumbling along beside Constance, mute in her misery. It was several hours since they had heard the evidence of just how far the rebels' influence had spread in this region of France, and she had not spoken since. Constance reached out to clasp the Queen's hand and squeeze it, seeking to reassure her. The Queen looked up, startled, and managed a small smile.

D'Artagnan was leading them parallel to a small country lane, trying to look as if he had a plan and frantically wondering how he was going to find them food and shelter for the night, when he spotted a dim glow in the gathering gloom. Quickly he motioned the girls to stay put, and continued on slowly. The glow was coming from a farmhouse set deep in the hollows of the valley. d'Artagnan watched carefully but there was no sign of life other than the light, so after a few moments he moved forward slowly and disappeared off down the field towards the farmhouse.

Constance waited anxiously as the minutes ticked by with no sight or sound from d'Artagnan. Straining her eyes, she thought she saw a shape drift along the wall of one of the outbuildings but she couldn't be sure. More minutes ticked by. Then suddenly there was a burst of barking, the farmhouse door was flung open, spilling yellow light into the yard, and the sound of a gunshot crackled through the air. Beside her the Queen gasped but Constance grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. "Stay here," she cautioned, then rose determinedly to her feet, dragging her small dagger from the sleeve of her dress. The Queen's eyes widened but Constance flashed her a reassuring smile, and flitted silently across the lane towards the farmhouse.

The sound of barking came closer and for the first time Constance felt afraid as she darted quickly down the grassy slope towards the house. She saw a figure framed in the light of the doorway and quickly ducked down, breathing fast and hoping she hadn't been seen. Where was d'Artagnan? And where was that bloody barking coming from?

In the next second both questions were answered as a dark figure limped frantically towards her, followed all too closely by the low shape of a large farm dog. Even as she rose to her feet the animal leapt and tackled d'Artagnan to the ground in a growling tangle of limbs. She heard an agonised yelp from d'Artagnan and didn't hesitate, running towards him with her dagger raised. She drew back her arm, aiming for the back of the ruffled neck, but d'Artagnan yelled "No, don't kill him!" and she stopped in astonishment, hardly believing her ears.

"Are you mad?" she hissed at him.

"He's only – argh! – doing his job," d'Artagnan panted out, now trying to grab the animal's jaws where they were fastened firmly around his left elbow.

Constance rolled her eyes and reversed the dagger in her hand, then brought the hilt smartly down on the animal's head. It yelped and instantly let go of d'Artagnan, who quickly scrambled backwards, keeping a wary eye on it as it shook its head and staggered slightly. "Come on," she urged holding her hand out to him, then blinking in disbelief again as he made it to his feet but headed back down the field towards the farmhouse.

"What are you _doing_?" she hissed at him, half exasperated, half worried. The dog was now trotting unsteadily off, fortunately giving d'Artagnan a wide berth as he moved at a slow walk away from her. Hands on hips she glared at his back, then ducked as a second shot rattled up the valley. At that moment d'Artagnan dropped his knees and for an agonizing moment her heart seemed to stop, thinking he had been shot. But then she saw him gather something up, and rising to a low stoop he made his way slowly back to her. When he reached her side she grabbed his hand determinedly. "What are you playing at?" she demanded, dragging him back towards the road and checking nervously over her shoulder. Thankfully she saw the farmhouse door was closed again and she started to breathe more easily.

"I'm sorry," he panted. "It was... a bit improvised."

She gaped at him in disbelief. "A bit? I had no idea what you were doing... and what was that with the dog, for goodness sake?"

"Oh... he was protecting the farm - and I like dogs," he said, sounding defensive and slightly embarrassed.

"Idiot!" she muttered fondly as they reached the Queen's hiding place again.

The Queen's eyes were wide in the gloom, but she smiled in relief when they reappeared. "Are you okay?" she whispered. "What happened?"

But d'Artagnan waved her ahead. "We should get going in case the shots attract attention."

"What's your plan? Where are we going ... we can't keep walking all night, can we?" The Queen sounded so weary, thought Constance.

"We're going to have to sleep rough, but I'll find somewhere sheltered, and we'll make a fire," promised the Musketeer. And then he grinned, teeth flashing in the semi-darkness. "And I've got you some shoes, Your Majesty. Maybe not what you're used to..."

"I don't care what they look like, I'll wear anything! Thank you!" The Queen's voice was tremulous. Constance hoped she would still be thrilled when she saw the farm boots d'Artagnan was dangling by their laces from one hand...

Author's Note:

* _Busca en la casa. Prisa_ : "Search the house. Hurry!"

I have school-girl French and Spanish so forgive any mistakes, but hopefully I've got it roughly right.


	9. Chapter 9: Night

_Thank you so, so much for all the comments and encouragement. It makes my day to log on and find a new review and see how many people are dipping in to this story. So, I'm giving the boys a breather tonight, but these are often my favourite moments in stories, so I hope you enjoy it none-the-less._

 **Chapter 9: Night**

The three older Musketeers had reluctantly stopped earlier than they had hoped because the light was so bad in the rain. "We can't track them in this," Athos told Aramis firmly when he protested.

"We won't be able to track them after this rain anyway," Aramis said bitterly, as he slipped off his horse and straightened his aching back.

They had found a small group of trees to give them shelter, just after passing a small hamlet. They too had knocked on doors but unknowingly found the same response as Constance; few doors even opened and the two people who did speak to them told them fiercely to move on. It was clear that the folk here were frightened, and they had decided to stop asking for fear of putting them in danger. Now they resigned themselves to passing a long, cold night in the open, waiting for dawn before they could carry on searching.

"Hey, Aramis, let's 'ave a look at your arm. I know you're carrying some kind of wound there," Porthos said gruffly as they settled around a meagre fire and divided up their rations. He remembered with a pang that the others would have no food, having no saddlebags with them, no provisions of any kind. Lost in thought, he realised Aramis hadn't get answered. "Hey, brother! Your arm?" he prompted, nudging Aramis.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, was that the sore arm?" Porthos looked innocent, then ducked as Aramis took a swipe at his head in mock anger. For a moment it felt almost normal. Then Aramis sighed and dragged his medical kit out of his saddlebag, handing it to Porthos and rolling up his sleeve to reveal a deep gash in his forearm. Porthos drew a sharp breath in and glared at Aramis. "You're always complainin' when we hid injuries, what on earth are you thinkin' of, hidin' this?" he chastised his friend.

"I wasn't hiding it, Porthos – you knew it was there, didn't you?" Aramis shot back, quite reasonably he thought. Porthos simply grumbled under his breath and poured water over a scrap of cloth, then scrubbed rather vigorously at the wound to clean it. Aramis bore his attentions stoically, until Porthos started trying to thread the needle Aramis always carried in his kit. Aramis reached over with his good hand and gently confiscated the needle.

"It needs stitching!" Porthos protested.

"No way I'm letting you loose on it. I've seen the one you did on Athos! I'll do it myself. Sorry, mate," Aramis said, apologetically.

Athos cleared his throat. "How about I do yours – if you do mine."

Two pairs of brown eyes swivelled to stare at him across the flickering flames of their camp fire.

"Somethin' you forgot to tell us?" Porthos' voice was accusing.

"Umm... Probably," Athos admitted slightly sheepishly.

Aramis scooted over to him and held out the needle, presenting his arm and at the same time scrutinising Athos carefully. "What and where?" he prompted succinctly. Athos peered at Aramis' wound in the dim light, then carefully starting placing the stitches. "My calf. Musket ball, clipped me back at the Pheasant. It's not bad, went straight through." He caught Porthos' glare and grimaced a half-apology. "I didn't really notice it at the time. Sorry." Beside him Aramis hissed as the needle dug a bit deep, and Athos smiled another, wordless, apology.

When he'd finished, and bandaged Aramis' arm firmly, Athos submitted to a double inspection from Aramis, who prodded the wound carefully to check for signs of foreign bodies or infection, then Porthos who, he suspected, was enjoying his self-appointed role as cleaner-of-wounds just a little bit too much.

After an infernally long five minutes Porthos declared it ready for stitching and allowed Aramis to do his thing. And finally, well overdue, Aramis turned his attention to Porthos' forehead where he'd been caught by a pistol butt and split the skin. Although the wound wasn't deep, it was ragged and still oozing, so he popped a couple of stitches in to help it heal clean and straight.

They settled for the night reluctantly. Athos took first watch as usual, never one to sleep easily. The others wrapped themselves in their travel cloaks and huddled close to the fire. Athos sat, back against the rough bark of a tree, and wondered how their youngest was faring without his cloak, which was still rolled up in his saddlebag, back at the Inn. Would they risk a fire? Were they even still free?

Out of the darkness Porthos rumbled quietly, "The pup's makin' a habit of this. Doing the 'single-handed saving of the royal hide' thing, aint 'e."

Aramis said sleepily "Glory-hunter." In the dark Athos could just make out Porthos reaching out to pat Aramis on the shoulder. "Sleep now, boys," Athos told them sternly. And found himself saying a silent prayer that the three escapees were safe.

* * *

In a stretch of thick woodland several miles away, d'Artagnan had found a clearing close to a stream that he thought would be safe. They hadn't seen any evidence of soldiers for more than an hour but before that had still been dodging frequent patrols and hearing shouts in the distance at regular intervals, which had kept them moving further and further north until it seemed safer.

They pushed their way deep into the undergrowth and well away from the nearest track before he stopped and decided this clearing would be safe enough for them to light a fire. All of them were soaked again in the persistent drizzle, and both women were shivering with the cold, so he felt it was a risk they had to take. The Queen dropped immediately to the ground with a heartfelt sigh, and rubbed at her feet. Constance looked at d'Artagnan, worried by his appearance as much as for the Queen. He dredged a smile up from somewhere and asked if she could gather wood while he collected water.

She frowned, then took the water skin from his hand. "I'll get the water. You need to sort your foot out," she told him firmly, and headed off before he could argue with her.

"Make sure you can find your way back," he cautioned her as she started down the sloping woodland in the direction of the stream they could hear. She flapped a hand at him and he grinned.

"Looks like you and I are on fire and shelter-building then, Your Majesty. Any preference?" She puffed a tired breath out then held her hand up to him so he could pull her to his feet. Again he took a moment to marvel at his temerity, giving orders to the Queen. All boundaries seemed to be disappearing and he hoped he wouldn't be in trouble once this was over. Louis hadn't taken long to revert to normal after their previous escapade, and d'Artagnan wondered if the dressing down he'd given the Musketeers after d'Artagnan had refused to execute Le Maitre had been, in part, the King's way of reasserting the difference in status between them.

But the Queen smiled at him and he breathed again. "I can't imagine how you will find a shelter here, so perhaps I had better collect wood. I remember Porthos instructing me before – small sticks, and look for those lying under other wood so it is drier. Is that right?"

He grinned back at her. "You have a good memory," he complimented her.

By the time Constance got back with the water (she had got lost in spite of his reminder to look for waymarks, but had sensibly simply headed back uphill until she could hear the soft murmur of their voices and the occasional crack of twigs being broken up) the camp was looking almost welcoming. D'Artagnan's other trophy from his raid on the farmhouse, aside from the boots which he had given to the Queen as soon as they stopped for a rest, was the farmer's thick cloak. D'Artagnan had found both items, along with a metal jug which would be useful for heating water, and some apples, in one of the outbuildings and had gladly snaffled them, stifling a feeling of guilt at stealing from such a poor household, but rationalising that the Queen's need – tonight at least – was greater. He had given the cloak to the Queen while they were still walking, and wrapped his own doublet around Constance's shoulders to protect her from the rain, but now both items were doing shelter duty. He spread his doublet over a thick layer of bracken to give protection from the soggy ground, and stretched the cloak over saplings he'd bent or cut and propped to make a rough framework. Their two heads were bent over a circle of stones directly in front of the shelter, where Anne was stripping bark from twigs using d'Artagnan's main gauche, and he was using his flint and steel over a small pile of dryish grass.

She stood to watch for a moment, heart full of love for this extraordinary young man who had burst into her life and simply refused to give up, whatever the odds. She had hurt him deeply when she rejected him, duty to her husband overruling her heart, yet still he watched over her and would do anything, she knew, to protect her. Not for the first time, she wished her husband would somehow disappear and leave her free to love this amazing man.

Heaving a small sigh, she stepped into the clearing just as a spark finally caught the grass, and watched, fascinated, as d'Artagnan picked up the bundle of grass and blew carefully on it, coaxing the spark into life. After more than a minute of patient work the grass finally caught properly and he was able to place the bundle carefully into the circle of stones that would raise the fire off the damp ground, and begin adding tiny twigs and last summer's nettle stems and teasel heads, slowly building up the heat until the fire could take larger twigs. By the time it was going properly Constance and Anne were both settled under the cloak, enjoying the first moment of peacefulness for hours. Constance handed around the apples and pieces torn off the half-loaf they'd been given and they ate slowly and in silence, enjoying every meagre mouthful.

Even before finishing their meal, the Queen was yawning and soon wriggled under the cloak; she was asleep within minutes, completely worn out from the relentless events of the day.

"d'Artagnan?" He looked across the fire enquiringly. "How badly are you hurt?" she asked him softly. She hadn't missed the stiffness with which he moved. His limp had worsened with every mile and his face was still masked in blood on one side in spite of the relentless drizzle. "And be honest! I will know if you're not," she warned him.

He smiled, dipped his head. "I've had worse."

"d'Artagnan!" she admonished.

"That's the truth," he protested. But she folded her arms and glared at him, so he gave in.

"My back hurts. I have a headache. My face hurts. My elbow really hurts where that bloody dog got me. And you know about the foot... that's about it." He'd missed out the sword-cuts on his bicep and thigh, but he figured they had stopped bleeding by now and he could barely feel them. He was too exhausted to make the list longer.

"Let me see your arm then," she instructed, moving round to his side of the fire. He rolled up his sleeve and they both peered at it, finding puncture marks oozing blood, with torn and swollen skin and bruising around the tooth marks. She made a sympathetic face. "That looks sore. It needs cleaning."

He couldn't argue with her so, sensibly, he didn't. She ripped a bit more off the bottom of her skirt and cleaned carefully around the small wounds then looked at him; biting her lip. The risk of infection was great from animal bites. Sighing, he picked up his dagger and settled the blade onto his torn skin.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, staying his hand with her own.

"I need to open the wounds so they drain well. I've seen Aramis do it with puncture wounds. Otherwise they close and the infection stays inside. It's okay, it won't take long." She moved her hand away, then winced in sympathy as he bit his lip and dug the dagger into his skin, slicing firmly across the first of the tooth marks. A line of blood welled up instantly and he dragged a breath in through his nose, then hissed it out softly as the pain flared. Then he steeled himself, and cut another small slice across the next wound. She couldn't watch, and yet she couldn't look away either. Shakily she tore yet another chunk from her underskirt and wet it, following behind the blade to wipe the blood and muck away from each new cut. He smiled his thanks but could spare no words until he'd finished the vile treatment. His arm was now criss-crossed with small but deep cuts top and bottom around his elbow, all bleeding freely. For a moment he just tipped his head back and breathed.

Constance wrapped her skirt-bandage around his elbow, steering clear of the joint so he could still bend it, but making it firm so the bleeding would slow. When she finished, he startled her by drawing her into his chest with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and dropping a kiss onto her hair. "Thank you," he whispered, and for a moment all felt right in her world.

The night passed slowly. Constance had curled up next to the Queen on the edge of the makeshift shelter, and slept fitfully. D'Artagnan stayed alert, feeding the fire which gave them at least an illusion of warmth and helped to dry their clothes a little. From time to time he moved into the trees and circled their clearing, checked to see how visible the fire was. Reassured that you had to be virtually in the clearing to see it, and hoping that the damp air would keep the smell of the fire from travelling too far, he was still resolved to stay awake, fearing they could be found if he slumbered.

He tried leaning against a tree trunk but found his back and shoulder pain became intolerable as soon as he stopped moving around. So he tended the fire as the night wore on slowly, the rain soaking into his clothes and stiffening his body with cold. His foot and elbow throbbed mercilessly and his mind thrashed around the day's events. He could hardly believe it was only a day since he'd had the long talk with Athos which he had found so helpful.

Had he made the right decisions today? Should he have circled back somehow instead of trying to cross the river, which had cost them so much in terms of lost weapons and injuries?

He couldn't stop thinking about the moment when he'd had to push Constance away from him in the water. He realised now that he hadn't had the chance to talk to her yet or explain, let alone apologise for her broken arm. It was his fault she'd been injured, because he'd put the Queen's safety before hers. He knew it was the only decision he could have made, but it didn't make it any easier. Could she forgive him?

And tomorrow – how would he find the others, if they still lived? Should he just head straight for Paris, if they could get clear of these Spanish mercenaries? And what did Hernán want with the Queen – would he give up and return to Spain if he didn't find her soon? Even if he did, the whole mission was a complete fiasco and the King would surely never forgive the Musketeers for taking the Queen to the meeting, let alone losing her in an area of France which was apparently overrun with Spanish soldiers. What a mess!


	10. Chapter 10: It's a Long Walk Home

_Well it seems they've survived the first night. We catch up with all of them as they hit the trail again today._

 **Chapter 10: It's a Long Walk Home**

Dawn was barely a gleam in Night's eye when d'Artagnan struggled to his feet, desperate to put the interminable night behind him and anxious to get going. First however, he had to get his body moving again. He tried some basic stretches but stopped on a gasp of pain as the movements awoke a volcano of hot pain in his shoulder. It felt like there was a musket ball in there although he knew he had not been hit. Could the impact have damaged his shoulder deep inside, maybe cracked his shoulder blade? He rubbed his temples, trying to banish the headache that came with a combination of lack of sleep, worry – oh, and head-butting a river boulder. Then he tried hobbling around the small fire which had burned itself out in the last hour, forcing himself to put more weight on his injured foot with each step. After five minutes he was moving more freely so he headed up to the lane and stood listening for a long minute, checking for any hint of movement or danger. Nothing – yet.

He put a few trees between him and the camp to relieve his bladder, then detoured to the stream to refill the water skin before returned to the clearing to wake the girls, but found they were already up and looking anxiously for him.

"Morning," he greeted them softly in the grey pre-light. The rain had stopped but moisture still hung in the air in the form of a cold fog. Both girls looked cold and tired, but more rested, and he saw a glint of determination in Constance's eyes that cheered him. He returned her smile. "How did you sleep?"

"More like, _did_ we sleep?" Constance retorted, but kindly.

"I slept!" Anne announced, almost proudly. The others looked at her. "What?" she asked, slightly defensively. d'Artagnan began to chuckle. " _What_?" she repeated.

"No, no, nothing," he said, then spoiled it by chuckling again. Constance was grinning too, but took pity on Anne.

"It's just... your Majesty," she emphasised, "it's a bit of a surprise that you slept ... at all, to be honest. Let alone all night through."

"Oh. Well, I wouldn't go that far. It was horribly uncomfortable, and cold. I didn't sleep the whole night..." She stopped, as Constance's grin widened. "WHAT?" she demanded.

"No, you're right, your Majesty, of course you didn't sleep the whole night through. I must have been the one snoring. It was absolutely, definitely not you..."

Anne looked outraged for a moment, glaring at them with her hands on her hips. d'Artagnan held his breath. Had Constance gone too far? Then the Queen snorted in an un-ladylike fashion and puffed out a breath. "I shall remember the way you mocked my affliction," she said, in a hurt voice.

"Aff- affliction?" d'Artagnan stuttered, sharing a panicked glance with Constance.

"Yes, my affliction," she said, crisply. "It is a family trait which we prefer to keep quite private but now that you have exposed it... " Then she caught their expressions and was unable to finish, breaking down instead into giggles.

"Oh!" exclaimed Constance and made as if to swat at Anne's head. D'Artagnan stood watching, nonplussed, as the pair of them clutched at each other and positively chortled. He cleared his throat and they both looked at him, then at each other, and started giggling again. "Stop it!" Anne gasped at Constance, trying to straighten up. "I didn't start this!" Constance retorted, still laughing.

"Ladies," d'Artagnan tried again. "We should be cautious... it's getting light. We need to move on."

That sobered the pair instantly and Constance stooped to gather his jacket and the cloak. "We both need to... freshen up," she suggested, looking at Anne, who nodded.

"Right. I will break camp – don't go too far." He was careful to keep his back to the two as they made their way into the trees to relieve themselves. He dismantled the night-time shelter and distributed the sapling branches around in the undergrowth, carefully re-laying them moss-side up to ensure they blended back into the woodland landscape. He chucked the fire-stones in different directions, and buried the ashes under leaf-mould. His last act was to carve a small mark into the bark of one of the trees, and place four pine cones at the base of it.

When he turned, he found Constance watching him curiously. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Is that a marker?" she questioned. He nodded, reluctant to explain, but Anne was there too and she wanted to know more.

"Is that a Musketeer code? How clever to have such a system ready... you have had to use it a lot?"

"Um... no." He didn't want to get their hopes up. "I... we don't have a code or system. It's just something I've been doing, since the river yesterday. I don't know if they'll pick up on it or if they've even noticed them. But it's worth trying."

Anne looked disappointed, but Constance gave him an encouraging smile. "I'm sure it will work. Now, what's our plan?"

He had to smile at the "our". After the rough night and the incomprehensible (to him) hilarity that morning, he was feeling strangely cheered. It wasn't the same as being on a mission with the Inseparables, but they were beginning to feel like a team.

* * *

By unspoken agreement, the Inseparables were also up and breaking camp at the first hint of dawn. None had slept well, and all were anxious to get going. There was a brief argument between Athos and Aramis, who had no intention of letting anyone set off without having their wounds checked, but eventually peace was restored, wounds re-dressed, and declared healthy, and they were off.

They were all tense, looking out for possible attack whilst searching for evidence of the missing trio. They constantly debated where d'Artagnan would head, and every time they found a possible trail they tried to put themselves into his mindset. The difficulty was to know how differently he might behave because of being responsible for the Queen – and Constance too – and being injured.

The tracks were sometimes easy to spot after all the rain, and told their own tale. Porthos had found fuzzy prints which he eventually worked out could be from d'Artagnan's bandaged bare feet, and was sure that some showed traces of blood, and all of them could see the uneven way he was walking, with the weight heavily on his uninjured left foot which also seemed to be unbooted, for a reason they couldn't fathom. None of them had picked up signs of the Queen's delicate footwear, something which worried all three of them, but they regularly found two sets of boot prints alongside d'Artagnan's prints so they could only hope that, for some reason, the Queen had changed her footwear.

The sun slowly burned off the overnight mist, and warmed their chilled limbs. D'Artagnan was increasingly cautious as the visibility improved, and he tried to keep close to cover wherever he could.

To begin with their spirits were high, especially the Queen, who seemed chuffed that she had survived her first ever "wild camp", and seemed to think it was only a matter of time before the others found them and rescued them, or they could get to the main Paris road and find help. Unfortunately D'Artagnan had very little idea of where they were, let alone how to get to the road. He had only a rough knowledge of the region but they were already far north of the expected route, and he hadn't studied the maps as thoroughly as Athos did. All he could do was keep pressing onwards, trying to work their way east whilst keeping out of sight, and aim eventually to find a busy road or town where, he hoped, the influence of the renegades had not reached.

To add to his worries, he was concerned that his strength would let them down. He was certainly in no condition to fight even if he still had his sword, but at the moment he was more worried about his mobility. He'd checked the wound in his foot before setting off, and found it surprisingly clean. Clearly, immersion in the river had helped – he was glad something good had come of that fiasco – but the flesh around the entry wound was slightly swollen and warm. He'd steeled himself to press on it, gritting his teeth at the pulse of agony that shot up his leg, but could see no pus coming from the wound, only dark blood, so he hoped it was just inflammation, not infection. Even so he knew it might be days before he bear weight on it without pain. He was trying to walk without limping but it was impossible and he knew that the odd hiss of pain or hitch of his breath would be giving away just how much he was struggling.

Then Constance was beside him, holding something out in her hand, an uncertain smile on her face. He smiled back, automatically, then looked to see what she held. It was a branch, sturdy, the length of a shepherd's crook but with a roundish knob on the top, just right for his palm.

"I thought this might help?" she suggested.

He stared at her for a moment, overwhelmed with love for this amazing woman. Then he took the branch, thumped it on the ground and found it solid enough to bear his weight. He nodded, then impulsively caught Constance around the waist and pulled her in for a quick hug of thanks. Laughing, she pushed him off and caught up to the Queen who had paused to watch, a tiny smile on her lips. d'Artagnan swung after them, moving faster now and feeling happier than he had for a long time.

* * *

"There!" Porthos pointed. Athos and Aramis peered where he was indicating. Aramis's eyesight was the best of all of them, but Porthos seemed to be able to pluck tracks out of thin air, as he had apparently been doing for the last two hours. "Oh, yes, got it," announced Aramis confidently, then slid his eyes sideways to where Athos was giving him "The Look". Aramis shrugged, caught out; Athos merely huffed and walked over to join Porthos who was now standing looking around, deep in thought. Athos waited, patiently. Behind him Aramis held 3 sets of reins and tried not to betray his impatience. Their camaraderie so far was keeping him sane but his worry about the Queen, as well as the others of course, was all-consuming. "Surely we can't be too far behind them now!" he exclaimed despite his intention to remain calm. "I know we keep losing their trail and having to backtrack, but they're on foot, we're mounted..."

Athos flicked him another look and Aramis subsided, muttering under his breath. Athos hoped it was a prayer rather than a curse.

"This way," proclaimed Porthos eventually, and followed an imperceptible animal trail into the woodland to his right. After a few minutes he stopped in a clearing and looked around. Athos joined him leaving Aramis with the horses.

"Maybe..." Porthos mused to himself, pottering around the clearing picking up branches and examining them. Athos waited. "This one here's been moved. Doesn't match the indentation and the moss is different from the ones it's laying on... I don't know Athos. They could have been here. That stone's blackened, but it's cold... I can't tell if it's recent, or if it was them."

Athos nodded, acknowledging his words, and turned to head back to Aramis. Then let out a sharp exclamation and turned on his heel. Porthos glanced up. Athos was staring at the bark of a tree, and beckoning to Porthos. Squinting, Porthos jogged over then pulled up short. "Is that...?"

"I think so," Athos answered slowly. "Not his best work, but it can't be anything else." Porthos' face split into a huge grin. "That's our boy!" he approved. "Come on, let's..." he trailed off and Athos looked up to find the burly Musketeer staring at Athos' feet. He looked down, then back at Porthos. "Something wrong with my boots?" he enquired politely.

"The cones. Bloody hell boy, you cunning little... yeah, yeah, I get it now." He slapped Athos on the back. "Come on!"

Aramis was startled to find both men running back out of the woods. "What's happened?" he asked, anxiously checked around.

"They were 'ere, last night. Athos found a fleur-de-lis carved into a tree-trunk, and there was a heap of pine cones – suddenly realised I'd seen somethin' similar in stones, yesterday, probably several times, can't be sure now. They're in a pile of 3 with one on top." All of this came in an excited garble as Porthos grabbed his reins and heaved himself back into his saddle.

Aramis looked blankly at him and Porthos tutted, impatiently. "It's us! The three inseparables, with d'Artagnan added on top. I'm sure it's 'im. Keep your eyes peeled," he added, before taking off at a fast canter. Athos shrugged at Aramis in his habitual laid back manner as they mounted up, but Aramis was prepared to swear he could see a smile playing around Athos' lips as they followed Porthos.

* * *

Two hours after dawn the Queen was already flagging. D'Artagnan called a water break and they all sank thankfully to the ground.

"How are you doing?" asked Constance.

"I'm... tired," admitted the Queen. "Oh, and hungry. Very hungry... and my feet hurt." She wasn't complaining, just stating facts.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologised.

"It's not your fault," she said kindly, placing a hand on his. "I'm just not used to all this walking, I suppose. How do you do it – just keep going, hour after hour? Your feet must be hurting too..." They all looked at d'Artagnan's feet. Wrapped in strips of underskirt, caked in mud, blood oozed between the protruding toes of his right foot.

"Um, they do, a bit," admitted d'Artagnan. It was true; the wound in his right foot sent pain shooting up his leg every time it took his weight. In addition the soles of both feet felt bruised, and the skin on most of his toes was grazed or torn from contact with stony ground. Still, there was nothing he could do about it and he had learned early on in his Musketeer training that discomfort is an expected part of each mission. He levered himself up and held out his hand to the Queen to assist her to her feet. As Constance followed, he moved off, still holding the Queen's hand.

"I used to complain to my father when we were walking the farm boundaries or coming back from market. He would sometimes give me a ride on his shoulders but mostly he just talked to me, told me stories of the war or when he was a boy, and I realised he was just distracting me so I didn't think about being tired. It works. If I'm on my own I usually think about something I'd like to do, like... I don't know, like planning a trip, or swimming in a lake. I try to visualise it all, every detail... it might help you." He suddenly realised he was still holding her hand and quickly let go, worried that he'd overstepped the mark. Not that he was actually sure where the mark was, anymore.

She didn't seem to have noticed any transgression. "I'll try that," she said, thoughtfully.

* * *

The Inseparables had found two more markers, both of them an arrangement of four stones. It seemed Porthos was right and d'Artagnan had been leaving them clues all along. Hugely encouraged, they were so focussed on the latest marker and debating whether it indicated a direction or not, that none of them noticed a sudden hush in the bird song until it was almost too late. At the last second Aramis' instincts kicked in and he held up a warning hand, swivelling quickly around to face the woodland skirting the meadow they had been riding through. With a roar, four Spaniards burst out of the trees brandishing swords.

The three moved quickly in a well-practice routine. Athos strode towards the two nearest him, drawing sword and dagger and settling into a crouch as he waited for them to make their move. The first lunged expertly, trying to lure him around to give the second man an opening. Athos riposted, keeping his stance steady and doing the minimum. Years of experience had taught him not to expend unnecessary energy. An impatient or frustrated opponent soon makes a mistake, and sure enough the second man stepped closer trying to get a blow to Athos' side; Athos waited until he was within range of his blade then struck with an economical blow that left the man staring at the blossoming red line on his chest, then dropping slowly to his knees. Before he even hit the ground, the other man was dead from a blade across his throat and Athos was moving instantly to aid Aramis who was struggling with a weakened swing on his injured arm.

It was all over in minutes. The three stood breathing heavily. "Everyone okay?" asked Athos, checking the others quickly for any new wounds. "Think so," puffed Porthos. "They're not bad swordsmen though."

Athos agreed. They might be lacking in fight experience but they were definitely well trained. He hoped d'Artagnan hadn't met any. One on one or one on two, he had total confidence in his protégé, but when injured and having to protect two women...

"Alright, mate?" Porthos checked Aramis who was still bent double, hands on knees, panting. "Yeah... caught a blade over my ribs, but it's not deep."

Porthos swung him around and wrinkled his nose at the sight of the gash in the side of Aramis' doublet. "Let's have at it, then."

Athos collected the horses while Porthos took a look. "How is it?" he asked, passing Porthos a waterskin.

"Yeah, like 'e said, not too deep. Probably won't need stitches but I'm guessing it stings a bit." He nudged Aramis who grunted. He was breathing hard to push the pain down, but at the same time he was furious with himself for getting nicked. They had enough to contend with already without gathering more injuries.

Ten minutes later the wound was cleaned to Porthos' satisfaction, and expertly bandaged by Athos. Porthos booted Aramis into his saddle, waited for his nod, then the three set off again, leaving the bodies behind them. "Might as well let them know we're here – and fighting back," grunted Athos.

Porthos, at the back, didn't comment as he saw Aramis crossing himself and tucking his crucifix back into his shirt as they headed off at a canter. They would need all the help they could get today.


	11. Chapter 11: Telling Tales

_This part of the journe_ _y is a bit different, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Make the most of it: it's the last peaceful moment they'll have for a while!_

 **Chapter 11: Telling Tales**

"Bother!" The Queen sounded exasperated. Constance and d'Artagnan exchanged glances. After d'Artagnan had explained to the Queen his way of distracting himself when faced with long missions, he had taken the opportunity to walk with Constance and check how she was. She'd confessed that her arm was hurting more today, so he'd taken off his jacket and draped it carefully over her shoulder, tying the sleeves together to fashion a sling for her, against her protests that she was fine. Now they both stopped and turned to face the Queen.

"What's wrong?" Constance enquired.

"It's not working anymore," she exclaimed. "I've been planning a new aromatic garden at the Palace, but I keep forgetting what I've already planted and doing the same bit several times..." She sounded frustrated. D'Artagnan suppressed a grin. It had worked for nearly an hour, which she hadn't realised.

"It's hard to concentrate when you're tired, and hungry," he consoled her, then found she was looking at him expectantly. He sighed. Looking around he could see no evidence of habitation and definitely no sign of sanctuary on the horizon. Just endless scrub interspersed with a mixture of grassland and almost moorland landscape, rising in the distance to a heavily wooded ridge.

"Tell me a story then," she prompted, expectantly. "Maybe one of your missions?" He looked doubtful. Most of the missions he'd been on were uncomfortably close to their own current predicament, as they all seemed to court disaster, injury or separation at some point. The Queen saw his hesitation but wasn't about to give up. "Well, tell me about your childhood. A happy memory?"

He started walking again while he thought, knowing if they stopped for too long they would all stiffen up. He noticed Constance watching him with interest. He'd given her the bare bones of his childhood, of course – brought up on a farm in Gascony, no siblings, mother died when he was 8 – but nothing more. A brief smile lightened his battered face. Talking about walking the farm boundaries with his father had reminded him of one of his best – and worst – moments growing up.

Constance nudged him. "Share!" she demanded, having noticed his fleeting smile. He hesitated, but then saw the pleading look on the Queen's face. "Alright..." he said reluctantly; he wasn't used to talking about himself, and definitely not to the Queen. But she needed a diversion. He took a deep breath, and began.

"My village is small, and we worked hard. We..."

Anne interrupted. "Your family had a farm?"

"Well, yes. My father was..."

"But you said he was a soldier?"

"Yes, he was injured so came home when I was four. I didn't remember him. Actually I was quite frightened of him at first." He remembered his father sitting silently by the window in the rooms they'd rented in Toulouse while his father was away with the army. His mother had taken in washing – like Constance, he realised suddenly. He hadn't thought of that for years. Maybe that's why he had felt at home with Constance straight away. "He found it hard to adjust after being a soldier for so long... but when my grandfather died we took over the family farm in Lupiac – we moved there when I was five." He remembered being sad to leave his friends in Toulouse, and resenting this brooding man who had come home so damaged, demanding his mother's attention and mostly ignoring his small son except to tell him off when he was too noisy. Which was probably most of the time, he admitted to himself.

"Things were better on the farm. I loved being outside and started helping my father with the animals."

"What did you have?" questioned Constance, enjoying hearing more about his life.

"Oh, the usual; cows, pigs, some chickens... My grandfather was frail when he died so things were a bit run down. We ploughed by hand the first couple of years then bought a horse. It was hard work but we built it up again slowly – and later we bought more land from neighbours. I used to walk to school in Lupiac but when I was needed on the farm, that came first."

The Queen was fascinated. This was so different from her upbringing. "And you had no siblings?" Her family was big and she had always been surrounded by maids, siblings, cousins, nannies, governesses, courtiers... she couldn't imagine being happy on her own on a farm, miles from the nearest village and with just a moody father for company.

"No-oo..." There was a hint of hesitation in the word, and a look of pain crossing his eyes. Constance's hand crept into his and she squeezed.

"You don't have to ..." Constance spoke at the same time as the Queen apologised for prying, having also noticed his hesitation.

"No... no, it's ok." He took a deep breath and made a decision. "My mother got pregnant when I was about eight. They were both so happy, and I dreamed of a younger brother... but that was the year of the rains and the fever, and she got sick. The baby was born healthy, but my mother died four days later." There was a short pause. He was glad of the warmth of Constance's hand in his. He sighed. "The baby was beautiful. She named him Henri, but she couldn't feed him. The midwife showed me how to prepare cows' milk and honey, and I fed him, and he put on weight... he was always smiling... but he got sick too after three weeks, and we lost him." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

He usually tried not to think about those days of despair, when his father had shut himself away with his mother's body for two days, until the local priest came with three villagers and forced him to let them take her away to bury her. Their neighbours brought food, and he carried his brother Henri everywhere, took care of him, washed him and slept with him, tried so hard to do everything right to keep him alive. He cried for days, on his own, when Henri died. It was the priest again who arranged for the baby to be buried with his mother, and his father didn't even come to the short service by the grave, leaving the young boy to stand alone with the priest to say the prayers and fill in the tiny hole in the ground.

He realised he'd been silent for a while, lost in the memories, and hastened to change the subject.

"Sorry, that wasn't what I was going to tell you. " But the Queen was not to be diverted.

"Why didn't your father help with the baby?" she asked, gently.

"Oh... my father was... lost, I suppose. It took him a long while to get over it. If he ever did." It had been months before he emerged properly from their bedroom. D'Artagnan had taken food to him daily, and taken the plates away again, mostly untouched. He'd tried to cope with the farm pretty much on his own, feeding and moving the livestock, mending fences, driving cows or pigs to market with the help of their dog and sometimes neighbours who kept an eye on them, when they could spare the time. The next spring he'd harnessed their horse and ploughed two fields on his own, taking days to do it, struggling to roll heavy stones onto the ploughshare to weigh it down as his own bodyweight was not enough to dig the blades into the soil. All this time his father sat in the bedroom or more rarely the kitchen, brooding or sleeping.

Things had finally come to a head in late spring when their best cow was struggling to calve. d'Artagnan had begged his father to come and help him then ran back to the barn to check on the cow. The poor cow strained and groaned, and d'Artagnan did what he'd seen his father do, and reached inside her, struggling to straighten the calf's feet so they could slip out. The feeling, the blood, the smell, made him gag but he didn't give up, knowing the calf and probably the mother would also die if he couldn't help them. He finally got the calf's hooves lined up, and pulled with all the strength of his nine-year-old frame, but the calf was still stuck.

In despair he raced inside again to find his father had made it down to the kitchen but was vaguely looked around for his boots. " _Père_! Hurry, come on, we'll lose both of them. _Papa_! Please!" He reached out a bloody hand but hesitated because it was so long – months – since he had touched his father. Another bellow from the barn pushed him over his limit and he tugged at his father's sleeve. His father looked at him blankly. "Where are your boots? Oh, please..." He let go, found the dusty boots where they had sat by the fire for nearly six months, and shoved his father's feet into them. He tugged again, but when his father didn't rise, d'Artagnan finally snapped. Screaming at him to: "Move! Damnit!", as if in a dream, he saw his own hand flash through the air and crack against his father's face.

The sound of the blow had brought d'Artagnan to his senses and he stood, frozen, as his father's head rocked with the strength of his blow. He held his breath. Slowly his father straightened his head again and raised his eyes to his son's gaze. And held his gaze. For the first time in months he saw his surviving son properly, seeing his beautiful boy had grown into a wild-haired, too thin, grubby-faced lanky lad who was now staring at him with wide eyes, bloody hands and a mixture of fear and panic on his face. He took a breath that felt like the first one he'd taken since his wife had died in his arms, and let it out. Then he rose slowly to his feet, put his hand on d'Artagnan's bony shoulder and turned him towards the door.

They had not saved the calf; but they did save the mother and she went on to give them four more healthy calves over the years. More importantly, d'Artagnan felt as if he'd got his father back - even though he cringed whenever he remembered striking him.

Slowly his father had got himself fit again and took his share of the farm work back, although it was many more months before he began to re-engage with his friends or the village. So when d'Artagnan's best friend from school, Jacob, proposed that they should both enter that year's village tournament, he had harboured a hope, but not the expectation, that his father would come to watch.

"What was the tournament?" asked Anne. d'Artagnan actually jumped when she spoke; he had been so lost in memories that he had forgotten that he had a rapt audience, and could not be sure how much he had voiced aloud.

"Oh, it was fun." His voice became more animated and his face lit up as he started to describe it. "Most villages around had some kind of ceremony each spring when they walked their parish lands, reinforcing the boundaries between villages by beating the ground with sticks to mark the lines. The village priest would say prayers at the four compass points, and some villages would pour wine or leave offerings around the boundary. We called it Beating the Bounds. I don't know how it started but our village turned it into a competition for the youngsters. You had to be aged between 11 and 16, and it would start in the village square, then the competitors would run to the river, swim under the bridge, then run through the forest and back to the square. It was one of the highlights of the year; everyone came to watch and make bets.

"By the time I was old enough to take part it had got more elaborate, with a climb over the ruined wall of the old inn and over the roof, then down to the river, and coming back there were horses borrowed for the day; there were heats of six boys at a time, and you just got on whichever horse you fancied, jumped some poles then galloped back to the square. It was tricky if you were small because we were riding bareback so there was lots of gamesmanship where the bigger kids took the smaller horses to be sure of leaving the younger kids struggling to mount."

Anne made a disapproving noise, picturing the scene and feeling sorry for the smaller competitors, but Constance snorted and tucked her arm in d'Artagnan's. "Go on," she encouraged him. "How did you do?"

"Well..." he paused for dramatic effect, then ducked as she went to whack him.

"Come on, did you win?"

"Oh yes, do tell me you won!" Anne joined in.

He grinned at the pair of them for their expectant faces. "I was 11, remember; it was my first year and some were five years older than me... but I was doing well in my group to begin with. I was quick over the walls and a fast runner, but I was overtaken on the swim as I hadn't done much more than mess around in the water before. But I caught up with the leader of our heat on the run up into the woods, and I was really loving it... until I realised the one I was overtaking was the local Comte's son, Gerard. He'd won it for the last three years, and didn't like some young sprat overtaking him. So he tripped me up in the woods when we were out of sight."

"What?" Anne sounded outraged. "But that's cheating!"

D'Artagnan sounded amused. "Yes, and it gets worse. I was winded, and he came back and held out his hand and I took it, thinking it must have been a mistake and he was going to help me up. But he pulled me onto his fist, punched me in the face, and knocked me back to the ground, and then he kicked me and told me to learn my place."

"How can you sound so calm? His behaviour was abominable!" blurted the Queen.

d'Artagnan laughed out loud at the expression on her face. "I know; I was stunned and not just from the blow to my head. I hadn't met him before, only recognised him from afar, and had no idea what he was like or I might have been more circumspect." He paused to consider, then shrugged, acknowledging he probably wouldn't have backed down even then. Constance grinned knowingly and nudged him to continue. "Yeah... Anyway, by the time I got to my feet I was at the back of my group. I made up a few places but even so I didn't qualify for the final round." He tried not to sound bitter but even after all these years he couldn't hide his disappointment.

"I thought this was a happy memory for you," Constance sounded worried.

"It is! Don't worry, there is more." He paused and took a gulp from the water skin, then handed it around before moving them off again. At least his tale was keeping their minds off how tired and hungry they all were. "I went straight to my room when I got home. Father was outside feeding the animals but I was so angry that I didn't want to speak to him. I heard voices after a bit, which was unusual – we didn't have many visitors – but I was too upset to care. But then my father called me to come down. I should have made the evening meal like I always did, but when I got to the kitchen, he had cooked, and tidied, and was sitting at the table waiting for me. It was the first time in six months that he had cooked a meal. I couldn't believe my eyes!" He smiled at the memory. "It turned out the village priest had worked out what happened and come to my father. I suppose it was obvious as I had been so close behind, then emerged from the woods minutes after Gerard with a cut lip and bruised face. The priest thought my father ought to know in case I was badly hurt."

"Were you?" Constance's voice was soft.

"Not really – only my pride I suppose. But having my father make an effort, wanting to talk to me – that made it worthwhile." He paused, remembering the feeling of utter disbelief, followed by growing hope as his father served their meal then poured him a glass of watered down wine and toasted his first effort at the competition. Slowly d'Artagnan had started to recount the day's events, encouraged by his father's attention. It had felt good, so good.

"So what happened about the Comte's son? Did he get away with it?" Constance wanted to know.

For a moment d'Artagnan's face looked bleak. Then he seemed to visibly collect himself and he took a breath, glancing at them as if checking whether they had noticed. What was that, she wondered. There was something there... but he was continuing now and his voice was warm again.

"There was nothing we could do. You know what it's like; you can't complain about the nobility, not without an awful lot of witnesses. Sorry, Your Majesty," he added quickly, worried he had given offense, but she waved his apology away. She knew perfectly well how flawed the nobility could be. He nodded his thanks, and carried on. "So I decided to make sure I won the next year. Jacob and I practiced our swimming..." Constance was sure that bleak expression crossed his features again fleetingly. "And the following year when we were 12 we entered again. Jacob and I both won our heats and of course Gerard did too – he was as big as an adult by then and pretty strong. But I still reckoned we had a chance; Jacob was small for his age but we looked out for each other and he was pretty fast...

"So in the final there were six of us. We were going well until the river, but Jacob was never a strong swimmer so we dropped behind a bit by the end of that section. It was like the previous year; we caught up in the woodland..." Constance noticed, but didn't comment on, the fact that it seemed d'Artagnan had stayed with his friend when he struggled in the swim. "... and this time he had friends there waiting for us. We'd overtaken the others by then, and when we entered the forest we saw Gerard had just stopped running and stood with his mates, waiting for us to reach them.

"We couldn't get past them – they were blocking the track – so we had to stop. He started baiting us, calling us names, saying that farmers kids had no right entering the competition; then they came at us. I was bigger than Jacob so I pushed him behind me and took a swipe at Gerard. We got hit but we were quick and eventually Jacob dodged through and got past. He was yelling at me to follow him, and I was shouting at him to keep going, and one of them whacked me on the head with a branch, but I fell against Gerard and brought him down, and Jacob kicked one in the..." Constance coughed, Anne giggled and d'Artagnan flushed. "Ah... well, he kicked him... and I managed to floor the last one and we took off.

"Gerard caught up with us in the run for the horses, but I was lucky and managed to grab one of the better jumpers. Gerard was right behind me but he picked one of the worse jumpers ... or maybe he just wasn't such a good rider. He crashed a couple of the fences... and yes, I did win that year."

"Oh, well done d'Artagnan!" Constance crowed and gave him an enthusiastic one-armed hug. He laughed, slightly embarrassed, and gently disentangled her.

"Yeah... he was livid, of course, tried to say we'd cheated, cut past them in the woods or something, but I had blood running down my face from where I'd been hit, and Jacob had a black eye, so it was obvious something had happened. They were way bigger than us, and three on two, and everybody hated the de la Joulles family anyway, so I was given the trophy and Gerard stomped off... It was sweet!" He threw his head back and laughed out loud at the memory of that day, sounding carefree and all of 12 years old again.

"Did your father see the race?" Anne wanted to know.

"Yes, he came! He didn't say much but he took me to the village bar and bought everyone a round of drinks that night so I think he was pretty happy."

"Thank you for sharing that memory with us." Anne looked around, surprised to notice how high they had climbed out of the valley they'd been in all morning. "Hey, your distraction tactics do work!" d'Artagnan smiled, and gave her a little bow.

"All part of the service, Your Majesty," he grinned boyishly.

Constance hid her own smile. It was rare, these days, for d'Artagnan to spend any time with her let alone open up in this way and she had just learned more about him in 20 minutes than she had in months whilst he was lodging in her house. She had a mental image of a younger, scruffier d'Artagnan dodging out of the woods, vaulting bareback onto a horse, laughing with his friends holding a trophy... then her smile faded as she remembered the hints he'd given of the bleak time with his father, pictured him carrying baby Henri around as he fed the chickens, and realised he'd had to deal with his own grief at losing his mother, and his baby brother, completely alone. Now, more than ever, she understood the depth of his despair when he arrived in Paris having lost his father as well.

She realised her steps had slowed, and hurried to catch up to the others. She went to slip her hand into d'Artagnan's but as he turned with an encouraging smile she stopped dead, staring at him.

"What?" he queried, looking around quickly in case he'd missed some sign of danger.

"Your shirt..." she trailed off then reached out to turn his shoulder so she could see his back. "How did I miss this?" She sounded cross and d'Artagnan grimaced briefly.

Anne had stopped now and came back to where Constance was peering at d'Artagnan's back intently. "What is it?" she asked.

"It is nothing. Ladies, we should keep moving," d'Artagnan made to turn but Constance stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder that caused him to stifle a gasp of pain. She dropped her hand instantly but fixed him with an icy glare. "Nothing?" she mimicked him. "Your shirt is stuck to your back with blood and I can see torn flesh underneath. I don't call that nothing! Why didn't you say anything? When did this happen?" she demanded fiercely.

D'Artagnan floundered under her onslaught. "I... it happened in the river. And I did mention it, last night, but we treated my arm and then we were tired... and there was nothing to be done," he finished more firmly. "It's just bruising, nothing broken," he added hopefully, but she was having none of it.

"Are you deaf? There is _blood_ , d'Artagnan. Even you can't pass that off as nothing. You should have said; it needs cleaning. I can't believe I didn't notice!"

And there, realised d'Artagnan, was the nub of her fury. "Constance, I've had my jacket on, how could you see?" They both looked at his jacket, now doing duty as sling for her arm. Clearly visible, now they looked, was a ragged rent in the leather, ringed with a dark colour that had no business there. She raised her eyes to his, accusation fighting with worry in her gaze.

"I didn't notice the rip even when making your sling, so how could you?" he said, softly. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and he knew he had to take charge again. Worry, exhaustion and pain was wearing them all down and making them emotionally vulnerable. And apart from anything else they had stopped in full view of any searchers. "Right, we will find cover then you can take a look for me and see if anything is to be done," he said, decisively.

He turned, re-oriented himself, and moved off, the two women falling in silently behind him.

 _Author's Note: I have no idea whether French villages have the tradition of Beating the Bounds, but I've known variations on it in English villages, including one where teams took part in a relay race around the boundaries (running, cycling, canoeing, horse-riding... I was the "woman with dog" leg and also half a "human wheelbarrow". It was great fun! I know French villages use any excuse for a fete, so I thought why not have Lupiac celebrate the end of the winter in this way?_


	12. Chapter 12: Hunger

_We're getting there, I promise!_

 **Chapter 12: Hunger**

They paused in the shelter of some scrubby trees so that Constance could wet his shirt until she was able to tease it free of the wound beneath. He heard twin gasps from both women as they saw the damage. He felt uncomfortable having his bare skin, never mind a wound, visible to the Queen, and shifted restlessly, but wisely kept his mouth shut. When Constance was in this mood, there was no point.

"It looks awful," Constance declared bluntly, after a moment. "There's a big chunk missing out of your shoulder; what's left is torn and puffy. And you have some truly spectacular bruising all down your side, as far as..." She paused and he felt her fingers pulling at the waist of his trousers.

"Hey!" he protested, jerking away hastily. He was pretty sure the bruising continued well down past his hip, judging by the stiffness and pain he'd been feeling there since last night, but he wasn't planning on letting Constance, let alone the Queen, verify that for themselves.

He could feel Constance's glare even with his back to her. "Does it need cleaning?" he enquired, politely.

She tutted. "Of course it does, _caillot_."*

He took a calming breath, reminding himself that she was only worried for him. "Then perhaps you could do it quickly so we can move on?" She made no open reply, only muttering under her breath. He caught the words "stubborn" and "fool" in quick succession, and decided not to listen to the rest.

"Your Majesty, how are you doing?" he took the opportunity to ask, seeking to distract her from staring at his back as well as distract himself from the discomfort of Constance poking crossly at his abused shoulder.

"I am tired," she admitted. She moved to his side and he gave a quick sigh of relief as she brought her gaze to his face instead of his exposed wound. "d'Artagnan..." she paused, searching his face. He schooled his features to remain impassive in spite of the twinges of discomfort as Constance worked to clean his wound. "I wanted to apologise for the way I behaved yesterday." He must have looked blank, for she sighed. "I wasn't very... I was a bit... unhelpful. After the river, when we were looking for shelter – I nearly slapped you!" d'Artagnan looked down, biting his lip to control the treacherous twitch of his lips at the earnestness of her expression. To be honest, he'd forgotten their initial disagreements about seeking help and right now – with Constance poking around in his shoulder wound – it was the least of his worries. He dragged his attention back to the Queen, aware he wasn't giving her his full attention. "I think I – panicked a little. So I wanted to apologise, and tell you that I do trust your judgement. I will endeavour not to challenge your decisions." She looked lost, he realised: lost, weary, dishevelled and completely out of her depths.

"Your Majesty," he began, instinctively reaching out for her hand to reassure her before hastily stopping himself as he realised that, yet again, he was in danger of over-stepping the mark.

"You should call me Anne," she interrupted him. He blinked at her, stupidly. "Out here," she gestured around at the unrelentingly damp autumn scenery, "titles mean nothing. And it takes too long. I think, just for now, you should both call me Anne. And..." she reached out for his hand now, taking it in both hers, "I am very grateful for whatever... comfort... you are able to offer me. Both of you," she added, looking over his shoulder at Constance.

He felt stunned, and not just at the fact that she had apologised. He wasn't at all sure if he'd understood what she meant about comfort. Constance, fortunately, had no such problems, and promptly enveloped both him and Anne in a hug worthy of Porthos. If a little more delicate. "Group hug," she proclaimed, happily. d'Artagnan didn't know what to do with his hands, crushed as they were between his body and the Queen's... Anne's. She was no doubt trying to allay his fears about crossing boundaries but he wasn't at all sure he was ready to treat her as anything other than his Queen, no matter what she said. Taking a hand to help her up, or reassure her, was one thing (and at least she had let him know that she was not about to report him to the King for his many transgressions at this level over the last day or so). But hugging the Queen?

To his relief Constance released them both and went back to torturing his shoulder. He shut his eyes briefly and took a calming breath, feeling everything was spiralling out of his control. When he opened them again Anne was regarding him steadily, and he had the feeling she knew just how discomforted he was feeling. A moment later he knew for sure, when she stepped closer to him and said softly: "I've had to get used to sleeping wild and traipsing around the countryside like a Musketeer. It's time you made a couple of adaptations too," she added, her eyes twinkling at him. His mouth opened before he realised he had no idea how to respond, so he hastily shut it again, and managed a respectful nod.

She smiled, patted him gently on the shoulder, and took herself off to a fallen tree to tear yet another strip from her underskirts, which she handed to Constance to use to cover his shoulder wound. Finally his shoulder was strapped and decently covered with his shirt again and with relief he suggested they move on again.

"Just a minute," Anne told him. She eyed Constance, frowning with concentration.

Constance looked down warily but seeing nothing untoward. "What's wrong?"

Anne smiled, caught Constance's good hand and started pulling her off to a nearby bush. "Give us a moment," she called over her shoulder. d'Artagnan sighed. "Like rounding up cats," he muttered to himself.

Five minutes later the two girls returned looking conspiratorial. D'Artagnan blinked, looking from one to the other. Constance now sported a petticoat-sling instead of his jacket, which the Queen handed back to him. He put it on absently, glad of its warmth in the raw afternoon but still looking at Constance. Cradled in the sling, he could see that her broken arm was wrapped in something new; instead of ragged underskirt it was held by something pale blue and solid-looking. His brow creased, he looked at Constance who grinned. "Don't ask," she advised him, taking him by the arm and turning him to walk beside her out of the clearing.

"Yes, but ..." He stopped, suddenly realising what the blue material reminded him of. A blush slowly crept up his neck and warmed his cheeks as his brain caught up with his mouth. It really wouldn't do to voice his realisation that the object now cradling Constance's tender arm was a boned bodice that, from the colour, had undoubtedly previously encased the Queen's body.

Constance grinned at his discomfort. "See, it's not only Musketeers who can improvise," she chided him gently. He snorted and shook his head, a smile creeping across his face. Maybe they would be okay after all.

The dull damp morning drifted into a chilly afternoon and his optimism dipped with the temperature. They were all flagging, starving hungry and feeling the chill of the evening as the shadows lengthened. On the plus side, they hadn't seen any evidence of mercenary soldiers for many hours. However neither had they seen any dwellings for quite a while, and the prospect of a second night spent in the open was depressing all of them. He had started to work back south, worried that they were lost in a wild area and could just stay wandering for days until they collapsed. He was now hunting for a track or road, or a dwelling, prepared to risk breaking cover again. Surely they were clear of the Spanish-infested area by now?

A familiar-sounding crunch of wheel on gravel caught his ears and he stopped, listening intently. Constance had also heard it and was quick to pin-point it. "There," she said, indicating. D'Artagnan saw it too; a pair of horse's ears appeared above a line of bushes, and behind it something else; shapes that looked suspiciously like...

"Melons!" Constance breathed. He pulled them both down behind the line of bushes that he now realised formed a rough hedge, the other side of which was a track being followed by the horse-drawn cart which was, indeed, loaded with melons. He felt his mouth water instantly and imagined he could smell the ripe fruits on the dank air.

"d'Artagnan, if you get me a melon I will ... will do your laundry for the rest of my life!" Constance's voice was deep with longing as she stared at the enticing fruit rolling ever closer to their hiding place.

"...and I will knight you!" declared the Queen, fervently. D'Artagnan cast her a sideways glance. "Can you do that?" he asked, frowning.

"Well I'll persuade Louis to do it then. Just... get us a melon!" Had she been standing, he was sure the Queen would have stamped her foot. He grinned fleetingly, but his own hunger quickly reasserted himself. It would be a risk, to come out of hiding, but none of them had eaten anything all day and he didn't think he would survive a night with two wrathful women if he didn't attempt to take advantage of the bounty about to pass in front of their noses.

"Stay here, stay out of sight, do not move!" he instructed them sternly. "If anything goes wrong, head for Paris. Don't hesitate, just leg it."

Constance opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, but he silenced her with a glare. "I mean it. You have to promise, or I'm not budging."

"Ok... but how do we know which way to head?" From her expression, that wasn't really the question she wanted to voice, but it was a sensible one and he addressed it quickly whilst looking over his shoulder to judge how close the cart had got.

"Keep heading east. Use the sun." As one, they all looked up at the overcast sky. Quickly, before she could ask, he added: "if you can find a stream, follow it against the current; if it merges, follow the larger water course – that should bring you back to the River Eure, which empties eventually into the Seine." The Eure lay well north of where he thought they were, and certainly north of where they should be to rejoin the Paris road, but he have time to explain further; the cart was almost past them already. He rose stiffly to his feet, struggled out of his jacket with its tell-tale pauldron and quickly smeared mud over the rent in his shirt to disguise the dried blood. He smoothed his hair and moved out from the cover of the bushes, trying to look less like a hunted Musketeer or bandit, and more like a farmhand who had fallen on hard times.

Constance and Anne huddled on the damp ground, listening hard. They heard d'Artagnan call out a greeting to the carter and they heard the sound of the wheels slow, then halt. There followed a frustrating few moments when they couldn't make out the conversation, only the tone of voices. The carter sounded sharp and suspicious to begin with, but she thought whatever tale d'Artagnan was spinning might work when she heard a short laugh. Anne grabbed her arm and she turned with a smile, thinking Anne had drawn the same conclusion. To her consternation however, Anne's eyes were wide with panic and she was looking to their right, the direction from which the cart had come. "What...?" started Constance, then she realised. That laugh had not come from where she could still hear the two voices bartering for the melons; it had come from the right, where she now realised she could hear hooves – more than two horses, she thought, as panic rose to her throat.

There was no time to do anything, even though Anne started to rise to warn d'Artagnan; Constance knew better and pulled her fiercely back down. So the two women could only stare at each other in anguish as several horsemen swept past their hiding place. They could only listen with breath held, to the sound of a startled exclamation from the carter and a shouted command in Spanish from one of the horsemen: " _Sigue lo! Rapido, vayan_!" followed by the sounds of hooves thundering off into the distance. Constance put a hand to her mouth, her heart thundering in her chest, and started to rise. Now it was Anne pulling her back and jerking her chin to the left where Constance now realised she could still hear voices.

"He's questioning the carter," whispered the Queen tersely. "Oh! He's telling men to search the area. Constance... what are we to do?"

* * *

Tempers were fraying for the Inseparables as daylight faded. They were all tired and frustrated, and each suffering from their various injuries. Most of all though, they were desperate to find d'Artagnan and the two women; and the more time that passed, the less likely that seemed.

Aramis was tireless in his efforts to track, leaping on and off his mare every few yards, it seemed, to examine a possible print or pile of stones. But as the light dimmed, he was forced to concede that they had lost the trail. It was hours since they'd found any of d'Artagnan's markers and his anger was battling with a deep despair to which he utterly refused to submit.

Athos drew to a halt and looked thoughtfully around. He, of all of them, seemed to have kept his cool but maybe that was because he was so practiced at controlling his emotions. "Aramis," he called softly.

Aramis turned his horse, a look of hope flitting across his face before he realised Athos was looking at him, not at some mark or sign he'd missed. "No!" he growled instantly, knowing full well what Athos was going to say.

Athos simply looked at him, and raised his hands in a helpless 'what can I do?' gesture. Aramis turned his mare away, muttering under his breath, and kicked her forward. Athos looked down, sighing, and waited.

Porthos drew up alongside him and crossed his arms on the pommel of his saddle, leaning forward and stretching his stiff back. They both watched Aramis in silence as the marksman ranged from side to side of the track ahead of them, peering into the gloom.

After another minute Porthos pursed his lips and gave Aramis a whistle. Aramis reined his horse in, hesitated, then they both saw his shoulders slump in defeat. He swung his leg over the front of the saddle and slid stiffly to the ground, then turned and walked slowly back towards them.

As he reached them, Porthos dismounted and stood before Aramis, who stopped in front of him and raised his eyes. Porthos hesitated, then stepped forward and raised his arms to hug his brother. For a long moment Aramis simply held on to Porthos as if his life depended on it, then finally clapped him gently on the back and heaved a long breath.

Athos had stood watching patiently, knowing his two more demonstrative brothers needed that moment of human contact to ground themselves. Then he turned his horse towards a stand of oak trees and led the way towards another cold, damp night in the open.

* * *

In the gathering gloom Constance listened in numb horror to the sound of d'Artagnan being captured. She couldn't see him; he'd raced off down the opposite slope from where she and Anne were hiding as soon as the Spaniards had spotted him talking to the carter. But she heard the thundering of hooves fading into the distance, then a guttural shout and a hoarse cry of pain that she recognized only too well.

She'd pushed down her feeling of rising panic when Anne translated the Spaniard's commands, and quickly made plans with Anne. She had insisted they split up, hoping that at least one of them would escape unnoticed, and pushed an extremely reluctant and panic-stricken Queen to head east – the direction from which the riders had come – in the hope that they would not search an area they had just ridden through. She herself scrambled west, keeping as low as possible, knowing the colour of her dress would make her easy to spot unless she was in cover. She reached the start of some woodland just as she heard galloping hooves coming her way. Quickly, heart pounding and her breath coming in gasps, she hurled herself into the undergrowth and dived to the ground as soon as she was a few feet into the shadows.

She heard the horse come closer and start to slow, heading towards her end of the woods. Frantically she looked around, wondering if there was anything she could defend herself with or a better place to hide. Too afraid to change places in case the movement gave her away she lay frozen, trying to listen over the sound of her panting breaths.

When she thought her trembling would give away her hiding place, she heard another shout of triumph in the other direction, then a shrill whistle. The horseman searching her bit of woodland wheeled his horse and galloped back towards where they'd encountered the melon farmer. Cautiously she raised her head, then rose to her feet and crept to the edge of the tree line. Straining her eyes in the gloom, she could see a kerfuffle near where she'd left Anne. Heart in mouth, she watched as two more horses rode up. One of the new horses had a body draped over the saddle in front of the rider. Without even looking she knew who it was. Her hands crept to her mouth, clasped together and she found herself praying that he was still alive and would stay safe, but the lump in her throat and the ache in the pit of her stomach were testament to her very real fears.

The horses moved off at a steady pace, and as she watched she saw, with utter horror, that behind another rider sat the slender figure of Anne, Queen of France. "Oh, no!" she breathed. They had both been caught. Suddenly she felt very much alone.

 _*Caillot_ : clot, imbecile (French)

 _Sigue lo! Rapido, vayan!_ : Follow him! Quickly. Get going! (Spanish)


	13. Chapter 13: Prisoners

_Here we go... the next couple of chapters are a bit darker hence the "M" rating._

 **Chapter 13: Prisoners**

There was darkness and oblivion. And then there was pain, and light, and noise, and fear.

It started with his shoulder; a red-hot dagger twisting under his skin, digging deep into his bones. He tried to ease it but found he could not move, and that his arms were dragged high above his head. Tight bands of fire licked around his wrists, or so it felt, and his weight ripped at his shoulders, tearing and straining the muscles beyond what he thought he could bear.

Then the white pain started, stabbing its way from the back of his head down his neck and dripping, like molten metal, into his spine, sending sparks of pain throbbing through his brain with every beat of his heart.

Then the black pain bubbled into his awareness, pulsing and writhing from every bruise and graze.

He tried to talk the pain down, imagining it pushed into a box and the lid firmly closed, the way Porthos had taught him when their sparring got out of hand; but today this was never going to work. He couldn't get a hold of any one bit of the pain that assaulted him, and his failure to best it sent shivers of fear through him. This was going to be bad.

He kept his eyes closed, hoping to pick up clues as to his situation before anyone realised he was conscious. There were people here, speaking in rapid Spanish, and the smell of straw but no horses nearby, and...

His breath was snatched from him as a gush of ice cold water hit him full in the face. He gasped, choked, struggled to clear water from his nostrils, and reluctantly opened his eyes, then jerked his head back reflexively at the proximity of an unknown face to his. He blinked water from his lashes and licked it gratefully from his lips, grimacing as he tasted blood as well as water. "A little close?" he suggested to the man standing nose to nose with him, dredging for the cocky tone of voice that usually came naturally to him.

The man laughed but it was a mocking sound. d'Artagnan had time to take in the grizzled hair and muscular build of a veteran soldier, and the unexpected gleam of an earring, then his head cracked to the side under the force of a blow to his jaw that he had not seen coming. He stopped breathing for a second as his vision greyed, then let out a gasp that was not, simply _could not be_ , anything like a groan.

"You are _comediante_ , but you stink." The man flared his nostrils in disdain. " _Agua, otra vez_."

D'Artagnan squinted at him, trying to remember the Spanish Aramis had taught him on many boring sorties. _Agua_ sounded familiar... Another bucket of water hit him full in the face, drenching his body and soaking into the rags masquerading as his shirt and trousers. That's one word he wouldn't forget in a hurry, he thought wryly, shaking his head cautiously to send drops flying from his hair.

"Now you are - _conciente,_ I have a question. Simple question. Where is the Queen?" The soldier's French was limited but clear and he stepped even closer to d'Artagnan in anticipation of his answer. D'Artagnan was tempted to head-butt him, but didn't think his fragile head could take it. He sighed, and shook his head cautiously.

"Sorry, I have no idea... unghh" he finished, inarticulately, as a fist drove itself viciously into his solar plexus, driving all the air from his lungs.

"We try again. Where is the Queen?"

D'Artagnan was incapable of speech, his lungs convulsing as he tried to convince them to do their job and pull air in, damn it! As his stomach muscles finally unclenched and cool, sweet air rushed into his body, the Spaniard paced impatiently in front of him and he caught a glimpse of a part of the barn he hadn't yet seen. Staring at him from her place on the ground, hands tied loosely in front of her, eyes wide with terror, was the Queen. He blinked in surprise and tried to speak, but the power of speech had not yet returned and all that came out was another small moan.

"The Queen!" the Spaniard snarled again. D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. What did the guy want for goodness sake; the Queen was right there in front of him... but she was staring at him so intently, as if willing him to... Wait. She was wearing Constance's dress. What...? His mind floundered. And then she spoke, her chin lifted in defiance of the tremor in her voice.

"I told you. We don't know where she is. The others sent her back to Paris yesterday." Her voice sounded odd, her speech not as crisp as normal, her accent more... common. Slowly his brain unfroze and he caught on. Better late than never, he thought, watching blearily as the Spaniard spun on his heel and strode over to her.

" _Basta_! I hear enough from you!" and he raised his hand to strike her.

"No!" burst out d'Artagnan before he could stop himself. The Spaniard paused, mid-strike, and turned slowly back to d'Artagnan.

"What is she to you?" he asked, dangerously. D'Artagnan cursed himself and thought as fast as his addled brain would allow.

"She is my..." If he said lover, or friend, this would make her a lever against him. What on earth could he say? "My companion," he finished, lamely.

The Spaniard looked disbelieving. "What do you mean? Why is she with you?" He turned to stare suspiciously at the meek woman again.

"She is... our entertainment."

"What?" This from the Spaniard, although he could hear it unspoken from the Queen as her eyebrows shot up.

"The entertainment. Musketeers have... needs, and this was a long mission." He felt himself growing hot around his collar as he improvised. He had not thought this through. In his haste to find a role for her that would not imply any bond between them that could be exploited, had he laid her open to a different kind of abuse?

This was answered very quickly when another man wandered into view, staring lasciviously at the Queen who was now glaring at d'Artagnan as if she would happily kill him. The newcomer swaggered up to her and ran a finger down her cheek, leering at her.

" _Bonita_ ," he said, appreciatively. " _Me gustaria joderte_ " he added suggestively. D'Artagnan had no doubt what he meant even without knowing the words. This was bad... very bad.

"You might want to rethink that plan," he offered, trying to sound casual and not desperate. His interrogator turned an inquisitive look on him. "You might get more than you expect, if you know what I mean," he added.

" _Qué dijo,Sanchez_?" the other man asked. His interrogator – Sanchez – narrowed his eyes at d'Artagnan, who wasn't sure if it was because he didn't believe him, or didn't understand him.

"I said she might give you something you didn't want. She's not... as clean as she looks," he elaborated. Sanchez' chin rose as he understood and he barked an order at the other man.

" _Déjala! Esta sucia_." The man dropped his hand from where it had been hovering over her bosom and reared back as if stung.

Sanchez losing interest in the Queen was good. Resuming where he had left off before she spoke up was not so good for d'Artagnan. His worry about how to explain himself to the Queen kept him distracted for a moment or two but a flurry of vicious blows to his ribs and stomach left him struggling to breathe, let alone think straight, and when the Spaniard's aim drifted and one punch hit the already tender left side of his ribs where the river had left its mark, d'Artagnan could only let out an agonized cry before oblivion claimed him again.

* * *

"d'Artagnan?" The voice in his ear was soft but insistent. "d'Artagnan, please, wake up!"

Something touched his lips and he tasted cool, blessed water. He cranked his eyes open with a supreme effort and blinked at the Queen's anxious eyes regarding him over the water-carrier she held to his lips. He breathed heavily as the pain from his battered body crashed back into his awareness, and tried to smile, then winced as the action pulled at a split lip. He unclenched his jaw cautiously, feeling the ache of the bruises on his jawline and cheek bone, and croaked a "thank you" as she offered the water-carrier again. This time he managed several mouthfuls and closed his eyes in temporary bliss. Water had never tasted so good.

D'Artagnan?" she asked again, anxiously. He opened his eyes. "I'm fine," he replied automatically in response to the naked fear in her expression. She looked sceptical.

No one ever believed him when he told them he was fine, he mused, probing at a cut on the inside of his cheek experimentally. He pulled a deeper breath into his lungs and tried to roll his shoulders to ease the ache of over-stretched muscles, but there was no relief. He puffed the air out again in a rough sigh.

"Are you okay – how did you get free?" he remembered to ask, starting to look around him. How long had passed? Were they alone?

The Queen glanced sideways at a guard who was slumped on a pile of straw, head tipped to rest on one of the wooden roof supports, snoring quietly. "They didn't tie my ropes very tight. And I'm fine too," she answered him in a low voice and with a twinkle in her eye that showed she was gently mocking him.

"I really am okay. A bit sore, but nothing too bad," he fibbed, cracking what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Can you get me down? We need to find a way out of here." She put the water skin down and tried to reach the knots around his wrists but the hook holding him up was set too high on the post, and his weight was pulling the knots tight; there was no way to get free without cutting the ropes.

He read the distress in her eyes easily. No point him panicking as well, so he kept his voice calm. "No matter; look for a way out. Hurry!" If she could get herself out, whatever lay ahead for him wouldn't seem so bad.

She moved silently around the barn, checking constantly over her shoulder to see if the guard stirred. She tried the large barn doors but found them barred from the outside. She disappeared out of sight behind him and he used the time to struggle silently against the bonds around his wrists but to no avail; his feet barely touched the ground and he couldn't get enough purchase to push himself off the hook that held him upright.

Suddenly she was back by his side, shaking her head. "I can't see a way out," she whispered. "There's another small door but it's and barred from the outside. We could probably break our way out but the noise would wake the guard." Her voice trailed off in misery.

"No matter. We will get a chance to escape." He saw the panic rising in her eyes and knew he had to reassure her. "They will make a mistake or get sloppy, or the others will find us, or Constance... We just need to be ready. Don't worry, we will get out of this."

He saw her relax a little at the thought of help coming, and he was glad to give her some hope, but knew he also had to prepare her for what might happen in the meantime. Even as a relatively new Musketeer he'd taken his share of beatings, although mostly in brawls against bandits or the Red Guard. This was his first experience of being tied up and interrogated, and he was realising that it was completely different from a fight.

In an unexpected brawl, adrenaline, and the ability to hit back, carried you through. Now he was helpless, already in a lot of pain, and could only wait, completely at Sanchez' mercy.

Fear of what might lie ahead was making his gut roil. He hoped he could handle it; he'd dealt with injuries before and knew how to dissociate himself from the pain. For the Queen however, this whole situation must be unbearable. He didn't know how long they would be left alone but he had to make these precious moments count.

"Listen to me." The urgency of his tone of voice brought her eyes snapping up to meet his, and she nodded. "Two rules. Say nothing unless you are asked a direct question, and say the least possible. Don't draw attention to yourself." She nodded again; what he said made sense. "We must not let them know who you are. You've done really well so far, but if they find out, it will be disastrous."

Another nod and a quick whisper of her own: "It was Constance's idea to swop dresses." He smiled at that; of _course_ it was his brave, stubborn love's genius. For a moment he was diverted by a wave of fear that swept over him; where was she? Was she safe? But he knew there was nothing he could do for her at the moment and he dragged his attention back to the Queen.

"It was brilliant, and it could yet save your life," he told her quietly. "I'm guessing they won't give up too easily though. You need to be prepared. It probably won't be pretty." He shut his eyes for a second, suppressing a shudder at the thought of what could lie ahead. "Whatever happens – no matter what they say or do to me – you must stay strong. You must not give anything away even if you think it would save me pain. I don't think they will harm you, as long as they think you are just... you know. So you have to stay invisible, let them concentrate on me." She frowned at that and he hastened to explain. "If they realise who you are – what would they do with you?"

She looked down. "I don't..."

"Yes, you do! They would use you – that's what all this is about! You would become a pawn to bargain over; the King would have to agree their terms to save your life – or he would go to war to seek revenge and retribution. Either way it's not just your life at stake, it's the future of our country!" He hadn't meant to go so far but he had to make her see. He knew it would be hard for her to watch if they returned to question him again, but if she caved in and told them the truth, all his efforts so far would be for nothing, and more importantly the potential disaster for France would make his own plight irrelevant.

He watched as his passionate words sunk in. After a moment she raised her blue eyes to his, lifted her chin in a gesture of determination that he recognised from audiences at the Palace, and nodded. He breathed a small sigh of relief; he knew she understood what had to be done.

"Second rule." She waited, saw him hesitate and look down. "I would prefer it if you ... don't watch." He struggled to express himself. "I'm not... it's... " He stumbled to a halt and saw her brow crease. He sighed and tried again. "It's not ... oh, hell!" he ended, frustrated, his head dropping as he grimaced, unable to formulate the words and not even noticing that he had sworn.

She hesitated, then put a hand to his chin and lifted it gently.

"Just tell me. Trust me."

He set his jaw and looked away. "I'm sorry. What I'm trying to say is..." He shook his head in frustration and tried again. "Being hit, being... hurt; it's hard. It feels... brutal. No... More than that, it's ... you feel raw. There's nowhere to hide, and I won't be able to hide... It's like ..."

He stopped again. He'd been going to voice the thought that it would be like having sex in front of your family. It's just not something you want anyone else to witness - but of course he couldn't say that. Even so he had to make her understand. He'd only suffered a short beating so far, but he'd felt stripped naked, and he'd been aware of showing weakness in front of his Queen. He couldn't be worrying about what she thought or saw; he couldn't be trying not to groan or whimper or spit or control his bladder.

It was one thing to be injured, or to show pain, in front of his brothers, who understood because they'd been there many times. To have an outsider present, and not just anyone; a woman – the Queen? He was terrified that he would break down or disgrace himself in front of her, and he knew that would just make it so much harder. The only way he knew to survive a beating was to step outside your body, to divorce yourself from every hit and simply endure. He just wasn't sure he could do that knowing the Queen was seeing everything.

"d'Artagnan, I understand. I will not watch. I am not here, except to help you, if I can. But I will be invisible. If this happens, if it is as you fear... I will take myself off somewhere in my mind, like you taught me when we were walking. Is that what you need to hear?"

He visibly sagged in relief, and nodded, closing his eyes briefly. "Thank you," he said, gruffly.

She smiled, touched his cheek gently, then flinched as the sound of footsteps could be heard in the yard outside. She didn't need his urgent whisper of "Hurry!" to send her scurrying back to the post opposite his, where she quickly wrapped the loose end of the rope around her wrists and curled up in the straw as if asleep, just in time.

 _Comediante:_ a comedian

 _Agua, otra vez:_ More water

 _Conciente_ : Conscious

 _Basta:_ enough

 _Bonita... Me gustaria joderte:_ You're pretty... I want to fuck you

 _Qué dijo:_ What did he say?

 _Déjala! Esta sucia:_ Leave her! She's unclean.


	14. Chapter 14: The Longest Night

_Thank you so much, really, to everyone who has left reviews, followed or favourited. It really gives me confidence to keep going when I know what you are thinking! Hope the next one meets your expectations._

 **Chapter 14: The Longest Night**

"Aargh!"

Athos lifted his head from his saddle and peered through the darkness. Beside him, he could hear Aramis' steady breathing, and knew he, too, was awake. He sighed. "Anything you want to share, Porthos?"

Silence, then another exasperated groan ripped through the copse where they camped. "I can't sleep!" Porthos growled.

There was a small pause, while Athos rolled his eyes. "Neither, now, can we," he commented, wryly.

His sarcasm was sadly lost on Porthos who simply rolled over to face him, his eyes flashing white in the gloom. "There has to be a better plan than just tramping around this bloody moor for another day hoping we catch a glimpse of 'em. Come on, tell me you've got a better plan!"

Athos raised an eyebrow, a movement the other two could sense, if not see just now. "This is down to me, now?" he queried, casually.

"Oh, come on! You're the planner, you're the brains of this team, you're the... the Lieutenant!" Porthos wheedled.

There was a muffled exclamation from beside Athos. It sounded suspiciously Spanish in flavour, and definitely grumpy. Athos looked to his left. "You have something to contribute?"

Aramis shot upright as if on springs and jumped right into the conversation. "He's right, Athos, and you should know that! This is hopeless! We need help, we need more men and we need to find them, fast. They could be anywhere! They could be on their way to a Spanish ship, or lying dead in a ditch or they could have been injured crossing that bloody river..."

Athos blinked. It was the most Aramis had said in hours. No prizes for guessing the direction his thoughts had been travelling all day... although to be fair, they were all sheltering similar fears. Giving up on sleep, Athos levered himself upright as well. "We should split up," he announced, without preamble.

Porthos gaped at him. "Nah, 'ang on that wasn't what I meant."

Aramis cut him off. "No, he's right. If we split up we can cover more ground."

Athos intervened. "Actually, I was thinking about one of us going back to the Pheasant."

There was another silence, this one distinctly disbelieving. Eventually Porthos broke it. "That's half a day in the wrong direction! Why would you...?"

"Because I've been thinking. If this area is so over-run with Spanish mercenaries, what are the chances the inn-keeper's nephew got through to the Paris road yesterday morning, when we ran into a dozen of them barely an hour before he set off?"

A pause, then a curse from Porthos. Aramis was silent but Athos could feel the tension coming off him in waves. Athos went on, quietly: "If he succeeded, Tréville could have made it partway back here yesterday, but there's no moon so they'll have had to camp, so the earliest they could be at the Pheasant will be this morning. However, if he was intercepted..."

"If he was intercepted, they might have news of him at the Pheasant."

Athos nodded at Aramis. "If no one is there by early evening we'll know the message didn't get through. We can arrange to meet, with or without reinforcements, in an agreed location along the search route, assuming d'Artagnan and the others are still heading roughly for Paris."

"But if there are no reinforcements one of us will have wasted an entire day waiting at the Inn." Aramis sounded despairing.

"And if they arrive in the morning as I ... hope... then our search party will be augmented by lunchtime. Or, if we discover sooner that the nephew failed, we can head fast for Paris and get help by the following morning. With luck."

Aramis snorted. "Luck hasn't been smiling on us recently."

Porthos harrumphed in agreement, propping his head up on his elbow. "So who's going back? I assume the other two will keep on searching?"

"Yes, so my thoughts are..."

"No!" interrupted Aramis forcefully.

Athos looked at him.

"I am not going back to the Inn. If we find them, they could need my skills; it would be crazy to have me kicking my heels at the Pheasant when they could be injured."

"Yeah, what 'e said. And you'll need me to track, won't you?" Porthos sounded hopeful. "So..."

"So," interrupted Athos, his pale eyes regarding Aramis with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "I will be going back to the Pheasant at first light."

"Yes but... oh. Right." Aramis, clearly expecting a disagreement, caught up belatedly and had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Good. Good..." He started pacing around the clearing. "Porthos, I think you and I should split up. We could..."

"We should get some sleep." Porthos' tone brooked no argument as he settled himself back down. "Talk about it in the morning." And with a yawn, his breathing settled within seconds into a steady, soft snore.

Aramis carried on pacing for a few minutes, peering through the trees as if willing the dawn to have broken whilst he wasn't looking. Athos watched him, adding a few twigs to the embers and stirring them to get a small flame. Eventually the medic sighed and came back to sit next to Athos. There was a silence for a few moments, then Aramis blew a noisy breath through his lips and nudged Athos gently with his shoulder. "Sorry, my friend. I've not been... helpful, or... "

"Or calm." Athos prompted him.

"...or ca – " Aramis stopped and glared at him. Then shook his head. "No, not calm. Not calm at all. Athos... this is torture!"

Athos nodded, staring at the nascent flames. "It's hard for you."

"For all of us," Aramis allowed.

"d'Artagnan is with her. He'll keep her safe."

"He was injured! And if they were safe, they would have holed up somewhere and waited for us."

Athos was silent. Aramis had a point; this thought had niggled his own mind countless times during the day. Even so... "d'Artagnan will keep them safe," he repeated. "I am sure of that. And when it's light... We'll find them."

"Yeah." Aramis leaned his shoulder against Athos and the two men sat companionably to rest and while away the endless hours until dawn.

* * *

Anne had seen several executions as part of her royal duties, including one in the king's chamber very recently, when Rochefort so ruthlessly carried out the king's instruction to execute Bruno. She had visited prisons and slums, and listened to reports of battles and raids, often given in person by Generals or Ambassadors and sometimes by battered-looking Musketeers. She had lived through the convent siege with Athos and Aramis and seen men killed by Musketeers and nuns. In short, she was less of a stranger to violence than many might suppose.

But never had she been forced to witness anything like this deliberate, cruel and brutal violence perpetrated on a defenceless man. Let alone on someone she respected and now knew well. Someone who had risked his life for hers, and was now paying the price. She had seen the _results_ of violence before, had shown compassion for those who suffered it. But never had she understood just how _unspeakable_ was the act of inflicting deliberate pain on another human being.

She could not watch, yet she could not turn her back on him, this young Gascon who had fought so hard to be the King's champion and win his commission, and who now looked like he might be the unluckiest new Musketeer in the regiment's history.

She couldn't believe anybody could survive such a beating. Sanchez was clearly determined to get the answers his boss sought and was relentless. She found herself shrinking back as far as she could get, curled up tight with her hands wrapped tightly around her knees and her head buried in her arms, trying to drown out the sounds of fists hitting bare flesh.

For the most part the Gascon was silent but sometimes she caught the sound of a gasping breath or a deep grunt of pain. She risked a glance when Sanchez paused for breath and saw him take a sip of water, taunting d'Artagnan by holding the cup under his nose then spitefully up-ending it so it spilled on the ground in front of him. She tried to catch d'Artagnan's eye, to give him her silent support, but his head hung low on his shoulders and his hair covered his eyes so she couldn't even tell if they were open or not. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and jaw. His chest was bare, the ripped shirt hanging uselessly to the sides. His skin was dark with bruises and deep grazes. His body hung limply from his over-stretched arms, and swung slightly from side to side as a result of the last blows.

Her stomach churned. She hoped for his sake that he was unconscious, but at the same time, selfishly, she hoped he wasn't: she didn't want to be left on her own in this ghastly situation.

* * *

Sanchez stepped up to the Musketeer again and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back to glare into his face. In that moment she caught a glimpse of such emotion from the Gascon that she flinched: his eyes blazed with scorn, determination and a hatred that needed no words. The Spaniard recoiled and let go as if his hand was on fire, then he seemed to go mad. He pummelled d'Artagnan's ribs, stomach and face, screaming abuse at him in Spanish until he was gasping for breath himself.

Anne had promised not to watch but she couldn't take her eyes off d'Artagnan who, even as his body was jerking and twisting under the onslaught, kept his chin high and never dropped his blazing glare.

After what seemed like hours Sanchez stopped. There was blood on his knuckles and she didn't know if it was d'Artagnan's or his, but he shook his hands as if they hurt him and he looked wildly around for a weapon to give his fists a rest. She shut her eyes as he spied a horse whip hanging from a wall and strode over to snatch it.

She looked again at d'Artagnan and saw a bleak look cross his features. He swallowed convulsively as Sanchez approached him again, then slowly and deliberately shut his eyes. Anne buried her head again as Sanchez let loose another volley of curses, but nothing could stop her from hearing the swish as the whip whisked through the air, and the wet crack as it bit into d'Artagnan's flesh.

Finally Sanchez ran out of steam and the frenzied attack ceased. The onslaught of gruesome sound-effects died away and she could now hear a fast, rasping breath that she thought came from Sanchez, and the rustle of straw as he paced around. She strained her ears but couldn't hear anything from d'Artagnan. She knew she had to look but her muscles wouldn't obey and she stayed, curled into a tight ball, head buried between her knees, tears streaming unheeded down her face.

After an eternity she heard a rapid exchange of Spanish, and then – blessed relief! – the sound of the barn door being opened, then slammed shut again. There was a heavy thud of wood on wood, which she knew was the bar being dropped into place to lock the door from the outside, then silence.

Slowly she raised her head and looked across at d'Artagnan.

He looked dead. His head lolled to the side and every inch of flesh seemed to be painted in blood. " _Díos mío_!" she whispered to herself, then flinched as she realised she had voiced her plea in Spanish. Forcing herself to look away from the Musketeer she saw a guard had been left on duty but far enough away that he surely couldn't have heard her. She breathed again, then immediately felt guilty for worrying about her own skin, and returned her gaze to d'Artagnan, watching desperately to see if he still breathed.

She couldn't tell. All she could do was wait. And pray.

 _Díos mío:_ My God!


	15. Chapter 15: From the Frying Pan

**Chapter 15: From the frying pan ...**

d'Artagnan _could only watch in horror as the Queen was dragged away by her hair. The cackling Spaniard paraded her in front of the Musketeer, hauling her limp body across the ground as if she were a broken doll. "You are weak scum. You betray your uniform, gutter dog!" he gloated. d'Artagnan's heart stuttered in his chest. "What...?" he croaked. "You don't remember? You gave her away, you fool! She was right here and you gave her up, you sobbed like a baby and begged me to stop and then you told me everything... Now we have the Spanish Queen, and soon France will be ours as well!" Sanchez stepped back from d'Artagnan and let go of the Queen, reaching for his dagger. d'Artagnan moaned as he saw the Queen's body tumble to the ground and stay unmoving. What had he done? Had he been so weak as to have given her away? He couldn't remember... he thought he'd kept her safe... He flinched as Sanchez ran the dagger down the side of his face in a strangely gentle way. d'Artagnan felt warmth as if blood was running down his cheek, then a sharp pain. He twisted his head away, knowing he was being cowardly again; he should face his death with honour – after all, he deserved it. He had betrayed his Queen! "Oh d'Artagnan, my Musketeer, you must wake up now" Sanchez whispered in his ear. d'Artagnan shook his head, confused even more. He was awake, about to die... why was Sanchez calling him_ _ **his**_ _Musketeer? Why did his voice sound like the Queen..._

"d'Artagnan? d'Artagnan! Wake up, d'Artagnan, please!" d'Artagnan felt his cheek being slapped gently. Why was Sanchez being gentle? Where was the dagger?

"What dagger, d'Artagnan?" That definitely sounded like the Queen. If he could just..."open your eyes, d'Artagnan!" Yes, that was it. He had to open his eyes. With a supreme effort he instructed his eyelids to open. Nothing happened. Had he gone blind? Maybe he was already dead; Sanchez must have cut his throat with the dagger. Had he killed the Queen too, after d'Artagnan had betrayed her? He was so sorry, so sorry...

"d'Artagnan for pity's sake, stop apologizing but just open your eyes, damn you!"

d'Artagnan's right eyebrow shot up at the tone of her voice – part exasperated, part fearful – and his eyelid followed. Light flooded into his brain and he groaned involuntarily and winced, turning his face away and shutting his eye again as pain lanced through his head. There was a muttered curse and the sound of something being dumped on the ground. Then the urgent voice in his ear again. She was dead. Was she going to haunt him all his... no, but he was dead too so how...?

"No one is dead, d'Artagnan. Although we will _both_ be dead if you don't wake up and help me. We have to get out of here!"

The desperate plea in her voice got through to him and he opened his eyes again. Or the one eye that was obeying him; his left eye seemed to be glued shut. This time the light was softer and he managed to turn his head towards the sound of her voice. And there she was. Alive?

"Yes, I'm alive! Are you with me now?" She took a step back and the warmth left his cheek. He realised she must have been tapping his face to wake him.

"I'm sorry but I had to wake you while the guard was asleep." She glanced nervously over her shoulder and checked; there was a Spaniard slumped against a post about 10 feet away, snoring softly. She turned back to him. "Can you walk, if I get you down? We have to escape before dawn and I'm not sure how long we've got. The guard took forever to fall asleep so we can't risk staying any longer. Sanchez gave up on you when you passed out again, but he told the guard he would send for Hernán at first light and it seems he is staying less than an hour from here. Sanchez said he would get some sleep then try again to find out from you where I am... and as soon as Hernán gets here the game will be up, so we have to escape now... d'Artagnan, are you listening?"

d'Artagnan had been trying to follow her torrent of words, but to be honest he was struggling not to throw up, and the walls of the barn seemed to be shimmying around in the flickering light from the lantern that she had placed near his feet when she woke him. Her words flitted around his brain, bumping into each other and making his head pound. Right now he just wished she would stop talking and leave him alone so he could sleep.

"Lord help me! d'Artagnan, I can't leave you to sleep; we have to go!"

Belatedly d'Artagnan realised that either she was very good at reading minds, or that some of the thoughts that were scrambling his brain were spilling out of his mouth. Is that how he'd betrayed her?

"You didn't betray me! Oh, d'Artagnan, please, please focus..." She sounded close to tears now. He tried to focus on her face properly. It was hard with only one working eye but he could see streaks in the dirt on her cheeks that told of previous tears. Had he made her cry? And was he still speaking aloud all his thoughts?

This time she didn't answer him, merely cupped her hand on his cheek again. "Are you listening?"

He tried to nod but his head felt wobbly on his neck and he wasn't sure he would managed it. He tried to speak – voluntarily this time – and managed only a croaked "yes" that made him wonder how she had understood his thoughts before. Maybe she really had been mind-reading...

"Focus!" she snapped at him and he blinked, owlishly. She caught hold of his chin and held his face so he had to look at her properly. All of a suddenly she was his Queen again, and not Anne. "The guard has a dagger. I'm going to get it and cut you down but if the guard wakes you have to be ready. We'll only have one chance. If he raises the alarm that's it for both of us – do you understand?" She glared at him and he swallowed and nodded. He saw her relax and she dropped her hand from his chin, turning resolutely towards the dozing guard.

"Wait," he hissed, surprising himself that his voice actually obeyed his command. She hesitated, looked at him, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

"Be sure. Don't hesitate. If it goes wrong and he wakes..." He trailed off. If it went wrong she would have no chance against the guard; she had no weapon skills and he was still helplessly dangling from his hands, feeling as weak as... Wait. Vaguely he remembered a lie from earlier, about her being a prostitute. Or had he dreamt that bit? No matter, it was still an idea.

"What? What do I do if he wakes?" she urged him, desperation lending a wobble to her voice.

"Lure him over here. I can help, you just have to ... tempt him." He winced inwardly, seeing the look of disgust sweep across her face as she understood what he meant. "I'm sure you won't need to – it'll be fine," he finished, lamely. She shut her eyes briefly, and took a deep breath, then turned back and trod quietly towards the guard.

He watched, cursing the bindings he could no longer feel on his numb wrists, as she reached the guard and hesitated in front of him, then seemed to change her mind and started to move around behind him. He saw her stoop, then straighten again and look over at him, a look of despair on her drawn features. His good eye shut as he mirrored her despair; clearly she couldn't get at the dagger.

d'Artagnan couldn't even see it but he assumed it was on the guard's right side where she stood hesitating. The guard was sitting on a bale of straw but leaned heavily towards his right, head slumped onto one of the roof supports, hands in his lap. d'Artagnan tried to think of a way to help her but his mind was blank. He watched her move back in front of the guard, and cursed as he realised he'd lost his chance to signal her to come away whilst they thought of another plan. Then he watched, dumbfounded, as she bent forward towards the guard's face, her hands reaching for his... groin? Was she...?

A lot of things suddenly happened at once. He heard a soft whisper, saw the guard's eyes fly open and his head startle backwards at her close proximity, then a strange expression crossed his face as he looked down at his lap where her hands seemed to be busy... Before d'Artagnan had time to feel any shock she was pulling on the guard's hands, tugging him upright then wrapping herself around his willing body, giggling into his mouth and stepping backwards, luring him closer step by step towards where d'Artagnan dangled from his post. Belatedly d'Artagnan realised he had a role to play in this macabre scenario, and he felt a moment of sheer panic as she neared him, one hand around the back of the man's neck, pulling him with her, the other roaming around his chest and back...

The guard moaned into her mouth as she backed him another step, then another, his own hands clutching at the queen's dress as he went in for the kiss... As she drew level with d'Artagnan she jerked her head backwards and dropped to the ground leaving the startled guard opening his eyes in bewilderment at the sudden change in mood, starting to look around, seeing d'Artagnan, starting to realise what had happened, opening his mouth to yell...

Desperately d'Artagnan summoned all his energy and gritted his teeth against the flood of pain as he used his torn and abused stomach muscles to raise his legs off the ground and swung them up towards the guard's head. The guard started to step back and his hand went for his dagger just as the queen's hand reached for the dagger from where she crouched on the ground, and their hands bumped. The moment's distraction was all d'Artagnan needed and he clamped his legs around the guard's head, adrenaline helping him to tighten his muscles convulsively and trying to draw the guard towards him with his thighs.

Startled, the guard floundered, hands flying up to grab at d'Artagnan's thighs, beating at his legs and uttering a muffled bellow. Desperately, d'Artagnan willed his legs to stay firm but as the guard wrestled and pummelled at him, his wrists screamed in agony at the extra weight dragging on the ropes, and d'Artagnan could feel himself weakening. "Hurry!" he managed to gasp, seeing the queen scrabble around in the straw. What was she doing? Why didn't she just grab the bloody dagger? Then he saw the man's belt was empty. When they both went for the dagger it must have flown loose and was now lost somewhere on the stable floor.

Darkness crept into the edges of his vision and he knew he couldn't hang on much longer. "Hit him!" he rasped through gritted teeth.

"What with?" The Queen's voice was shrill as she glanced up and saw the Gascon's legs slipping as the guard clawed at his throat, trying to loosen the Musketeer's hold. "Where is it!" she whispered, frantically scrabbling around still for the dagger. Then her hand brushed against something solid and, without pausing to think, she grabbed it, stood up, turned and smashed it over the guard's head on one fluid motion.

D'Artagnan could only watch in horror as the glass of the lantern smashed into shards and the oil shot out in an arc of flame. He saw the Queen stumble back in horror as she realised what she had done; he saw the guard start to crumple as d'Artagnan's legs gave up their hold on the guard's neck, and he saw, as if in slow motion, the burning droplets of oil sparkle as they pattered onto his flailing legs, onto the guard's falling body, and down onto the straw-strewn floor of the wooden stable.

 _A/N: sorry this is a bit shorter. The next chapter is too - it just fits the rhythm of the story that way. It is Saturday tomorrow though so... I could post an extra one, bit early? What do you reckon? Anyone interested in an extra chapter tomorrow?_


	16. Chapter 16 Into the Fire

_Apologies for this shorter chapter; I just think it works like this. Don't worry, the next one is longer and I'm hoping to post it later tonight._

 **Chapter 16: ... Into the Fire**

"Keep still!" The voice was high-pitched and panic-stricken, but the note of command was obvious and he obeyed without question, letting his legs dangle where before he had been frantically twisting and flailing as the flames took hold. She starting beating his legs using her bare hands to smother the flames, but a sob escaped her as more flames flickered to life from the spots of oil.

"Cut me down!" he told her urgently, feeling the hot sparks burning through his leathers and the growing heat as the flames on the barn floor flickered and crept closer.

"I can't find the..."

"Use the glass from the lantern!"

Understanding snapped in her eyes and she frantically stirred the straw with her feet and found a piece of glass. She stooped to pick it up just as d'Artagnan realised, and shouted, that it would be "Hot!" Dropping the shard even as she touched it, another sobbing breath escaped her as she wrapped a bit of skirt around her hand and grabbed the sliver of glass again. But as she stood and reached up with a hand that shook with panic and shock, they both realised that she would not be able to reach as his hands were tied at least a foot above her outstretched fingers.

d'Artagnan shut his eyes for a second as despair washed over him. He found himself cursing God as he realised this would be how he died. Well, he was damned if he was going to let the Queen die with him!

He opened his eyes again and found that Anne was stumbling away from the post and the circle of fire, licking ever closer from where the oil had fallen. Relief flooded through him that she was being sensible and he called after her. "Go, Anne, get out now. There's no time..." Then saw with horror that she was not heading for the rear door but searching around. "No, Anne, you have to go! Your Majesty! Get yourself out!" - urgently now, not caring who heard, ignoring the growing heat in his legs as the flames from the oil droplets took a hold of his breeches, starting to burn through to his flesh in scorching circles of heat...

Then she was back, dragging a straw bale, jumping onto it even as it wobbled into place, teetering, grabbing at his arms to steady herself and sawing frantically at the rope binding his wrists, unheeding when the glass slipped and cut his palm. Blood gushed and d'Artagnan ducked his head as the crimson drops fell into his eyes, but before the pain had even registered there was a tug, a sudden release of pressure on his hands, and then he was tumbling to the ground, pitching forward as he tried to make his arms move to protect his face, everything happening at once in a confusion of movement and noise, his brain unable to catch up with the sudden change in position after so long...

"Come on, move!" Her voice was frantic. Had he blacked out? He opened his eye again, finding his nose pressed painfully to the ground and straw digging into his face. He tried to rise, couldn't work out where his hands were but felt her tugging painfully at his arm. He went to roll onto his back and hissed as he felt a hot flame lick at his hair. Suddenly he had motivation to push himself to sit upright – watching his hands pressed against the ground as if they belonged to someone else – and then she was heaving at his arms again, tugging him so he had to get his feet under him or plummet forwards again. Absentmindedly he noticed his leathers were still smouldering and he batted at the glowing embers with hands that lacked all dexterity. Swaying, he looked around, seeing the fire taking hold around them, bursts of flames shooting up as the heat spread, Anne's features hazing in the smoke that was billowing around them both.

"Come on!" she insisted again, and all but dragged him towards the back wall of the barn. He lurched unsteadily on stiff legs, feeling pain in his body, but distantly, as if through a veil. She jerked him forward again, impatient, and he stumbled after her, realising it was getting hard to breathe, to see...

She stopped in the far corner of the barn and turned to him expectantly. "Can you get the door open?" she asked him urgently. He tipped his head on one side, struggling to focus. There did seem to be a door. He reached out slowly towards the handle, again noticing that although his arms moved, he couldn't feel his hands at all.

She tutted impatiently and grabbed his hand. "It's barred, remember? You'll have to break it down."

He looked at her, wondering just what bit of him gave her the confidence to assume he was capable of even standing on his own at the moment, let alone anything as energetic as breaking down a solid wooden door. He tried to tell her, to apologise for letting her down but the words caught in his throat and he started coughing. Weakly he leaned his forearms against the barn wall and dropped his head, trying to catch his breath. Then tipped his head to one side again, wondering if his one good eye was playing tricks on him as he realised what he was looking at. There on the ground, leaning up against the wall and almost invisible in the shadows, was a pitchfork. A bloomin' ...! He stooped, wobbled at the rush of blood to his head, grabbed at it and watched, stupidly, as his fingers brushed limply at the handle. He tried again with the same result. His hands simply wouldn't close. " _Merde_!" he swore, oblivious of his companion, convention, and everything else in the face of his despair.

With an impatient exclamation Anne reached past him and grabbed the pitchfork. "Now what?" she demanded, urgently.

He wanted to explain but his head was pounding, words hardly forming in his mind before the thoughts blurred and escaped. So he just held his hands out – his limp, bloody, useless hands – and crossed his wrists – the only bit of his hands that were obeying him – capturing the handle between them. He tried to aim the prongs at the gap between the door and the barn wall. Suddenly understanding, Anne snatched the pitchfork from his useless grip and jammed the prongs into the gap, then levered upwards with all her might. The lower prong caught under the bar that secured the door from the outside, and pushed it up out of the metal cup it rested in. With a clatter, the bar dropped, and the door burst open.

A gush of cool night air rushed past them, caressing their heated faces and slipping down their grateful throats. They both lurched forwards through the open doorway and out of the barn, leaving the rising roar of flames and the burning heat behind them as they stumbled into the dark passageway between the barn and the outer wall of the compound.

d'Artagnan was aware that his mind was working very slowly. He was concentrating very hard at the moment on not falling over, and trying to breathe without gagging on all the smoke that seemed to be trapped in his lungs. All his body wanted to do was get away from the fire and disappear into the cool night shadows.

But a tiny bit of his brain was nagging at him, telling him something urgent. Something about the Queen, and the fire... She had hold of him by his forearm and was dragging him along, and as she rounded the corner of the barn his conscious mind caught up with him – but too late: she had already pulled him out into the open, where their path emerged into the corner of the yard that separated the barn from the mansion house; where guards and soldiers were now milling around, their silhouettes framed against the growing glow from the burning barn.

He yanked her back even as she realised her error. Together they froze, waiting for a shout of discovery from the Spaniards.

But incredibly, none came. His good eye roamed the scene, seeing the urgency with which the soldiers raced with buckets of water to douse the burning doors of the barn, and gradually realised that in their dark corner of the courtyard, their shadows were lost against the background of the curtain wall.

Squinting the other way, towards the house, he saw a darker shape on the wall that just might be a small door cut into the stonework. Sending a quick prayer heavenwards that this time they might for once be lucky, he stepped forward in a low, shambling run, pulling the Queen with him.

The shape resolved itself as they neared it. It _was_ a door – a gateway, rather, blocked by a sturdy wooden door that, from the look of the deeper shadow framing one side, was ever-so-slightly ajar. Hardly believing that his prayer had been answered so swiftly, he reached out towards the door to pull it towards him. Only to freeze as he heard, above the roar of the flames and the frantic shouting going on in the main courtyard, the unmistakable 'snick' of a pistol being primed.

Slowly he swivelled his head towards the sound. A young soldier stood, arm outstretched, the dark mouth of the pistol pointing directly at his chest. The Queen, close behind him, uttered a single sound of distress and d'Artagnan's heart stuttered. They had been so close!

He lifted his chin and took a small, slow step towards the guard, turning his body a tad more so that he faced the Spaniard square on. Behind him, he hoped, the Queen's body would be protected by his own. He started to raise his left hand in the universal posture of submission, but with his right arm he was tugging the Queen gently towards the gateway in the wall.

He could feel her pull back as she realised what he was doing. "No," she breathed in his ear, but he took another small step forward and slipped his right hand into the gap of the doorway, nudging her towards safety.

The guard's aim wavered and he cast his eyes to his right, where his companions were obliviously fighting the fire. d'Artagnan could almost hear his thoughts. If he shot the Musketeer, he might kill him, then Sanchez would never find out where the Queen was, but if he did nothing...

That hesitation cost the guard his life.

That, and the glittering blade wielded by Constance as she stepped out of the shadows behind him, wrapped one arm around his startled shoulders and drew the blade decisively across his throat.

* * *

 _A/N I have re-posted this chapter as originally d'Artagnan's despair when he couldn't get the door open led him to use the word "putain" which, accordingly to modern usage is often used where we would use "fuck" in English, but literally means "whore". (I've heard it used that way and I checked on "Julie's favourite French swear words" on the net. However, thanks to Debbie (guest) for pointing out that even in extremis d'Artagnan might not use that word around the Queen! On the plus side I have learned lots of interesting phrases in writing this story!_


	17. Chapter 17: Crossed Paths

_A/N: I had fun perusing a present day map of France so I could work out in my head where all this was happening, so the place names do exist and roughly at the right distances to fit their travels. I don't have a 17_ _th_ _c map to check but there would have been hamlets and farmsteads that predated the modern towns and villages and could have had the same names. So I hope I am not annoying any French readers too much with inaccuracies!_

 _As promised, here is the second of today's chapters._ _I think it's time we caught up with the others, isn't it?_

 **Chapter 17: Crossed Paths**

Morning came, eventually; a grey, morning, the sun refusing to struggle through the low cloud to lighten their mood. They broke camp rapidly, eating the last of their trail rations – stale bread and sweaty cheese –whilst tacking up their horses and erasing traces of their campfire.

"So you're heading back to where we last saw a marker, yes?" Athos checked as he mounted, turning Roger to face the others and using legs and hands to hold the impatient stallion in place.

"Yes. We'll search the whole area again. If we find tracks one of us will wait for you while the other follows the trail."

Athos hesitated, internally checking whether this was the right move. He knew they ran the risk of not being able to find each other again, but equally knowing that they desperately needed reinforcements if they were to find the Queen quickly.

Aramis was already turning away, impatient to be on the move. "Travel safe, my friend," he called over his shoulder. Porthos looked between the two men, and smiled almost apologetically to Athos.

"Seems we're off then. Fingers crossed Tréville will be on 'is way already." He raised a hand in farewell, then urged his cross-breed to catch up with Aramis.

Athos sighed, still troubled by his decision, then turned Roger and let him have his head on the track back towards Bellême.

* * *

By mid morning Athos was pulling up in the courtyard of the Pheasant, which looked a lot calmer than when they'd left it two days earlier. The innkeeper appeared in the doorway as Athos dismounted. His welcoming smile disappeared rapidly as he recognised Athos, and he immediately looked around nervously as if expecting marauders to appear from all sides.

Athos raised a conciliatory hand as he led his horse towards the innkeeper, trying to remember the chap's name. Martín something. " _Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon ami_. I bring you no trouble this morning." He paused, scrutinising the man carefully. "Has all been well here since we left?"

The man hesitated, then shrugged. "You'd better come in." He whistled for his stable-boy to take Roger, and led the way inside.

Athos took his hat off and twiddled it impatiently while Martín lifted a kettle from the fire and poured two cups of spiced mead. Handing one to the Musketeer, he hooked a chair with his foot and sat down, nodding to Athos to join him.

Athos complied, and waited.

"Monsieur, I apologise but your message..." He hesitated and Athos felt his heart sink.

"What happened?"

"Julien, my nephew, was attacked barely an hour from here. He was lucky to survive, but your message was lost. I am sorry."

He didn't sound very sorry, but Athos reflected that the sudden arrival of violence, visited first upon his business and now on the person of his nephew, would test anyone's willingness to help a stranger, Musketeer or no.

"Your nephew – was he hurt?"

"Yes!" Martín half rose from his seat, sounding angry at the implication that his kin had given up the missive easily.

"Apologies, Monsieur Moreau," Athos soothed, glad to have remembered the man's surname. "I merely sought reassurance that your family have not suffered unduly in trying to help us. How bad are his injuries?"

Moreau sank back to his chair and took a sip from his cup. "He was knocked from his horse and left for dead. Fortunately he has a tough skull and his horse did not stray far. He made it back here by nightfall; he's resting upstairs still."

"Can I talk with him?" Athos knew he was pushing but he felt a huge sense of urgency. "My party is still fragmented and we have come across many groups of Spaniards in the area since we left here. I fear for the two women who escaped with the injured Musketeer. If no help is coming from Paris then I need every piece of information possible," he added, artlessly playing on any guilt the innkeeper might feel for the failure to deliver his letter.

The man huffed, then stood up and jerked his chin for Athos to follow. Athos quickly tossed back the rest of the mead and headed up the wooden stairs, noticing the fresh scar in the wall where a musket ball had landed during the fight two days earlier. At the top of the stairs Martín turned left, away from the room they had used to meet Hernán, and stopped at an open door halfway along the landing. He stood back and waved Athos in ahead of him.

A young lad lay in the narrow bed by the window. Athos winced at the sight of the bloodied bandage around his forehead, but the lad's eyes were clear and inquisitive as he turned his head towards his visitors.

"Julien, I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. It was my message you were carrying to the Garrison in Paris. I am sorry that this mission brought you trouble – how do you fare now?"

The lad sat up, cautiously, and Athos noticed a bucket beside his bed which betrayed the reason for his caution. "I am better today, thank you, but I don't think I can ride yet if you have another letter to carry?" He looked apprehensively between Athos and his uncle. His obvious sense of duty, even whilst injured, reminded Athos painfully of d'Artagnan who could surely only be a few years older. He hastened to reassure the lad.

"I would not want anyone else to risk injury on our behalf, but I thank you for your willingness to help. Can I ask you about those that attacked you? Any information you have could be of help. We have not yet found the missing women or our injured Musketeer, and we believe there may still be other hostile men around."

Julien looked horrified at the news that the danger was not yet over. "I saw very little. I was in deep woodland and heard horses coming up fast behind me. I pulled off the track to let them pass, but as I turned to look, I was hit and that's all I remember."

"How far had you got?"

"Um... I was close to the road to Boissy-Maugis but I don't think I'd passed the turning. It's hard to remember."

Nearly to Rémalard then, thought Athos, trying to visualise the forest area. They had been searching close to the direct Paris route but if the invaders were as numerous as he was beginning to suspect, it was possible d'Artagnan had been forced further north. Or he could simply be lost.

He rose, unearthing a stiff smile for the youngster and a word of praise for his resourcefulness in making it back to the Inn. Outside the room, he thanked Moreau and apologised for putting the lad in danger. Heading down the stairs again his initial plan to head for Paris himself, if his letter had not been delivered, seemed less attractive without knowing how many more enemy lurked in the forest. He was energised by the thought that they had been searching too close to the road, at least since losing the trail yesterday evening. It was still early; he should have time to catch up with the others and make a new plan. Perhaps they could try a more northerly route, heading towards Dreux. In which case...

"Could I trouble you for more provisions, Monsieur? And this time I will take the other three horses with me. I fear we will be on the road for several more days."

* * *

It took Aramis and Porthos two hours to retrace their steps from last night's search, back to the last marker they had found in the late afternoon. It was on a small farm track near the hamlet of Monceaux-au-Perche. They split up to search again in all directions from the marker, which was another pile of four stones laid beside the track, but after another hour or more of criss-crossing the area they had drawn another blank.

Glumly they met up and dismounted to rest their horses. "We need to find water," Porthos grunted, leaning against a stunted tree beside the track and looking around as if expecting a well to appear on command.

Aramis sank to the ground and wrapped an arm around his knees to rest his head.

"How's the arm?" asked Porthos, realising he hadn't checked on Aramis' wounds today.

Aramis shrugged, head still buried in his arm. "It's fine," he said, tersely.

"That good, huh?" joked Porthos, weakly. Aramis looked up at Porthos with such a bleak expression on his handsome features that Porthos dropped to the ground next to him and rested an arm around his shoulders. At first Aramis held himself stiff, then slowly he allowed his body to lean on Porthos and for a moment they both sat, quietly, lost in their own thoughts.

"He'll be alright, you know," offered Porthos after a while.

Aramis made a "pff" noise.

"Nah, really. This is d'Artagnan we're talkin' about – "

"That's what I'm worried about."

Porthos dropped his arm from Aramis' shoulders and stared at him, brows knitted.

Aramis grimaced, knowing his words had come out sharper than he'd meant. "Look, I know he's been a Musketeer for a year and yes, he's good with a sword, and quick on his feet, and quick-witted, and stubborn, and brave..."

"Exactly! So what ya worried 'bout then?"

It was Aramis' turn to stare incredulously at Porthos. "He's on his own! He's inexperienced, he's not been behind enemy lines or, or ... _hunted,_ before. He won't be able to walk far on that foot, it's probably infected by now, who knows how the women are coping, they've been in the open for two days, they've got no food, they've probably been captured by now or ... worse." He ran out of steam, his voice dropping to a despairing whisper, and he heaved a sigh, running his hand through his hair impatiently.

There was a long silence. Porthos was at a loss; it was not like Aramis to be so volatile, or so negative, and Porthos had the feeling he was missing something. Things had been difficult between the four of them for a few weeks now; not strained, but not as straightforward as before, as if everyone had something going on that the others couldn't share.

But dammit, the three – four – of them had been through so much, and they would get through this. He wouldn't let things unravel between them. These men were too important to him; they were his family, pretty much, and family stick together through the bad times, don't they? So he put his arm around Aramis again, and pulled him in for a proper hug.

"I don't know what's going on with you – " Aramis stiffened and tried to pull away, and Porthos chuckled and held him tight. No way he was going to lose a tussle – "and I don't care. I'm not asking. You'll tell me when you're ready, if you can, and if you can't – well, that's your business. I'll still be 'ere. And so will the others. _All_ of 'em," he emphasised. "All we got to do is keep going, keep close and we'll soon fish 'im out of whatever mess he's in. You know that, don't ya? I reckon we're close, and when we catch up with 'em we'll find we've been one step behind all the time."

His certainty warmed Aramis' heart and for a moment he believed him. Then the reality hit home again and he sat up straight. "So tell me, just how are we going to find them?" He flung an arm out, gesturing to the thick woodland surrounding them on three sides. "They could be _any_ where by now!"

Porthos drew a long breath in, wondering what to say. It was nothing he hadn't thought before himself, but he refused to give up, sure that d'Artagnan would still be doing his utmost to survive. If they were still together they would be dodging the Spanish patrols, looking for the Paris road, or another safe one, or looking for somewhere safe to hole up... Wait!

"Porthos? Porthos!" Aramis was still waiting for an answer, for some reassurance, but Porthos was lost in thought. "Hey! What is it?"

Porthos pursed his lips and looked around, trying to pin down his thoughts. Something Aramis had said about it being the first time d'Artagnan had been in the position of being hunted... avoiding the patrols... "What if we've been doing this wrong?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter. "What do you mean?"

"We've been trying to track 'im – them. But what have they been doing?"

"Huh? Porthos, for goodness sake spit it out!"

"I'm thinkin', alright? Give me a ... no, really, that could. Hmmm. Ow!"

He fended off as Aramis thwacked him in the stomach. "Porthos, I am going to throttle you if you don't get on with it," Aramis threatened.

"Okay, okay! Right... d'Artagnan doesn't know where we are, and 'e daren't head back to where 'e last saw us, at the Pheasant Inn, because 'e knows that's where the Spaniards are – were. So they've tried to head for Paris, but there are other Spaniards around... So what if they've just been trying to avoid the mercenaries?"

"How the hell does that help us to find them?" Aramis' exasperation was spilling over now.

"So instead of trying to track _them_ , how about we track the _Spaniards_?" Porthos waited, eyes fixed on Aramis' face, expectantly.

"Like I said, how does that... oh. Oh! We can ask about movements, work out where the soldiers are based –"

"Easier to find where an invading mercenary force has been than to find three people trying to hide from them!" finished Porthos, grinning.

"Porthos, my friend you are a genius!" Aramis sprang to his feet, aches and despair forgotten. "So what are you waiting for?"

* * *

Athos was about an hour from where he hoped to meet up with Porthos and Aramis when he heard horses approaching. He cocked his head: definitely more than two. Looking around he cursed; the track he was on wound through sparse shrubs and thin trees – no decent cover. He dismounted quickly and stood between the horses, hoping he might be mistaken for a groom waiting for his masters to return from a hunting foray.

It almost worked. He tipped his hat as the riders neared him and for a moment he thought they would pass him. Then someone called out and they slowed.

He raised his head. And found himself looking into the face of a man he recognised from the Inn. The Queen's cousin, Hernán.

* * *

They started by knocking on every door in the nearest village and surrounding farms. Most people were reluctant even to open their doors and they soon found out that the Spaniards had been very active in this area over the last two or three days. There were rumours of fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred men riding in from the coast, of thefts from outbuildings and homesteads, of travellers on the Paris road being attacked. To Porthos' mild amusement, they were also told about the bodies of six (or ten, or twenty) Spaniards which were found in a meadow yesterday afternoon.

Many doors later they struck gold when they found a farmer who spat when they asked him about strangers and soldiers. Looking around cautiously, he told them in a low, angry tone about the young lad he'd seen struck down by a group of mounted men with foreign accents who pursued him after seeing him talking to the farmer. His description was close enough to convince them that the young man in question had been d'Artagnan. Porthos couldn't stop a wide grin from spreading across his face at this, the first evidence for nearly three days that their brother was still alive.

"What of his companions; were they captured as well?" asked Aramis urgently.

However the farmer had not seen anyone else, and Aramis closed his eyes in agony as he considered the implications. Porthos rested a hand casually on his brother's shoulder as he continued with his questions. What time was this? Where exactly – could he show them? What direction did the men ride in? What weapons did they have? Was the lad conscious – did he look injured? Aramis listened as Porthos gathered layers of information, and took heart from Porthos' unhurried questions.

Eventually Porthos was satisfied they could learn no more, and the farmer headed back to his melon fields. Porthos puffed out his cheeks, looking up the track in the direction d'Artagnan's captors had taken according to the farmer. "We're not far from where Athos would meet us, so we'll head there first. And before you complain," he added, seeing Aramis about to protest, "we don't know if the women were captured too, so we stand as good a chance of picking up their trail 'ere as by following d'Artagnan's. So it won't hurt us to scout around for a while, until we're past the hour for meetin' Athos. If he comes, we'll be three-handed and if not, we'll not have lost too much time." He paused, putting both hands on Aramis' shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. "Agreed?"

Aramis shut his eyes briefly, then nodded and mustered a tired smile. "Agreed."

They turned to retrieve their horses, Porthos leaving his arm across Aramis' shoulders. He didn't know why his brother was so agitated; it was not like him to panic or despair so easily, even if they had "lost" the Queen. If Porthos suspected it was something to do with losing _Anne_ , rather than the Queen, he was wise enough to keep that thought to himself. All he knew for sure was that his friend was hurting, and needed Porthos to keep him grounded.

* * *

"Ah! We meet again, Señor Athos." Hernán nudged his horse towards him and raised a hand to the five men accompanying him who had started to move with him. Obediently they reined in and waited but Athos thought several looked twitchy, and his hand itched to move to his sword in response.

Hernán leaned on the horn of his saddle, his eyes taking in every detail of Athos and the four horses he held. Athos waited, keeping his face impassive while his mind raced. Six mounted men against one on foot were not good odds if the situation turned violent. He tried to put himself in Hernán's boots. Was he still after the Queen or had he given up? It might depend on how many men he still had in the area. If this was all he had left, he might think twice about losing any more men in a fight.

"That is the Queen's horse, no?" Hernán jerked his head at the fine grey Arab mare with the side-saddle; it was a bit of a giveaway. "You are expecting her here?"

Athos considered. Did that mean Hernán thought she was still at large, or was he mocking Athos for thinking she was? He decided to counter with a cryptic question of his own.

"Are you still looking for her?" Ha! Two could play at this; neither had given away whether they had the Queen in their hands.

Hernán's lips twitched and Athos knew he'd recognised the game. His French was good but in a verbal spar Athos surely would have the advantage. Then Hernán seemed lose patience and with a twitch of his hand, signalled to his men. The five soldiers immediately surged forward, drawing their weapons with synchronous "zings".

* * *

 _"Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon ami"_ – "Don't worry, my friend".


	18. Chapter 18: Drawing Breath

_A/N Thanks for all the reviews - they really do make my day and your thoughts have helped to shape the story. To those guest reviewers I can't respond to directly:_

 _Dee: thank you! I have found I love writing for Porthos!_

 _Celia: thanks for your help and comments. Sacrebleu! I'd forgotten that one and will definitely find a place for it somewhere, thank you!_

 _Debbie, yes, poor d'Artagnan has suffered so I think it's time for some comfort. Although I do wonder if he might be able to cope with just a tiny bit more at some point. Hmmm._

 **Chapter 18: Drawing breath**

d'Artagnan wasn't aware of returning to consciousness; it seemed to him that there was just _now_ , and before that nothing. His mind skittered frantically trying to work out where he might be, listening for the dreaded sound of rapid Spanish, mentally checking his body to see what hurt (tricky, since everything did) and trying to remember what had happened. He had some confused memories of Constance stepping over a body and running towards him; of her catching him by the arm as he clung to a door trying to remain upright. He thought he remembered stumbling down a steep slope dotted with high mounds of grass, loose boulders and sudden hollows, all of which conspired to trip him up at regular intervals. Then... nothing, just a blessed absence of pain - until now.

Hearing nothing but faint birdsong, a sudden panic swept over him as he wondered if he was alone. Adrenaline surged through him as he tried to open his eyes and push himself upright at the same time, before pain brought tears to his eyes and he gasped.

"Hey, no, stay still, d'Artagnan," said the sweet, gentle voice he knew so well – even if it frequently sounded a lot less sweet and quite a bit more acerbic. He squinted through puffy eyes, seeing only a silhouette against a grey sky. Then she moved closer and slid her hand under his shoulders to help him sit upright.

"Are you okay...where's the Queen...?" he rasped, wincing at the soreness of his throat.

"Hush, drink some water before you try to speak. We're both here, and we're fine, although she sounds just as hoarse as you. Quite a spectacle you two organised! Excellent cover for our escape too, eh, Anne?" This last was directed over her shoulder and he heard a quiet chuckle from behind her. Seeing his confusion Constance grinned. "Anne explained how the fire started. I don't think she's actually handled many lanterns herself so the danger of mixing oil and fire were an unpleasant surprise. Still, no real harm done."

"Except for that poor guard," interjected Anne, reaching past Constance to take the water skin from her and put the stopper safely back in as Constance urged d'Artagnan to lie down again.

"No, I need to..." he objected, his voice cracking then dissolving into a flurry of coughing which set his ribs on fire.

"You don't need to do anything except listen. We'll update you, so don't ask questions; wait until your throat feels better."

He subsided, knowing that tone of voice only too well. She took hold of his hand, checking it minutely for injuries and tutting as she saw the gash caused when Anne freed him from the post, and the burns he hadn't noticed in the frantic rush to escape the barn. Vaguely he remembered slapping at the flames on his breeches, having to smother them with his hands, as they stumbled away from the rapidly spreading fire. Then he remembered Anne doing the same, and lurched upright again, gasping at the myriad pains his sudden movement awoke all over his torso.

"What did I tell you? Just lie still and shush," Constance snapped at him, pushing him to lie down again none-too-gently.

"The Queen's hands," he protested. "Have you checked them? They must be burned..."

"I'm fine, d'Artagnan," she reassured him. "It's you we're worried about." He looked at her, then at Constance, and saw the same lines of anxiety on both faces, even though Constance was hiding hers well under her usual bluster. He tried to smile reassuringly, but immediately winced and put a hand to his lips as the movement cracked open several splits in his lip. Then winced again as Constance slapped his hand away from his mouth.

"Don't touch!" she admonished him.

"Ow!" d'Artagnan couldn't help saying. Even a gentle slap from Constance stung. She glared at him. "If you'd ever just do as you are told..." She took up a cloth, moistened it with water and began dabbing the fresh blood from his lower lip, holding his chin firmly to keep him still.

"Constance..." he mumbled past the cloth. She looked questioningly at him then huffed and lowered the cloth as he tried to speak again.

"Where are we? Are we safe? Have..."

"Shush," she told him again, but this time more gently. "We're safe enough." He went to speak but she hurried on. "We're about half a mile from the mansion and before you say anything -" (now glaring at him so fiercely he flapped one hand in a gesture of submission) "- we can't move at the moment in case we're spotted. We've seen several search groups go out, but I think we're ok provided we lay low." She caught the puzzled look in his eyes and carried on. "You kept falling and in the end we just rolled into this hollow and stayed here. By that time we'd heard shouts and reckoned they'd got into the barn and realised you'd escaped. Two groups searched this way but it's deceptive; it's basically open moorland so it looks as if there's no concealment. Unless you ride right up to this ditch, it's invisible. So I reckon we're safer here than if we try to move and get spotted."

She paused, both in her explanation and her attempt to clean his face and hands, and looked for his reaction. He nodded approvingly. Her judgement was sound. In open countryside, this close to the rebel base, they would be easy to spot. Especially if he could barely move, which seemed more than likely at the moment. If they were going to be found, it would have happened immediately after their escape was discovered, so it made sense to stay put.

Relaxing a little, she went to clean his face again but he caught her wrist and stopped her.

"We should save the water, if we can't move from here during daylight," he rasped.

"It's okay, we filled the water skin so we've got enough for a while," she assured him.

He stopped her again and pushed himself to sit upright, ignoring her whispered scolding and barely suppressing a groan as the movement pulled at all of his wounds; it felt like his skin was on fire again. Once upright, he avoided looking at Constance – knowing she would be glaring at him – and quickly scanned their surroundings. He could see they were sitting in what was basically a crack in the turf, which had perhaps been widened by rain but was currently relatively dry. It was narrow – not really wide enough for two to sit abreast – and only about two feet deep, although extra cover was given by tall tufts of grass, heather and the occasional evergreen bush along its course.

Looking up the slope to his left he could see trees and what could be drifts of smoke behind them – presumably the remains of their barn fire. To his right the land was relatively flat for a few hundred yards then started to rise again, still basically barren heath-land with occasional boulders and small trees. And in front of him, maybe a mile or so away, lay a solid barrier of deep woodland. He breathed a sigh of relief at seeing how close they were to the forest, which he fervently hoped was the Forêt du Perche, through the middle of which ran the Paris road.

"Happy now?" enquired Constance, deceptively politely. Clearly he was in trouble for ignoring her instruction to lay still. He crooked a cautious grin at her, trying to avoid splitting the tear in his lip further.

"You've found a really good spot," he whispered hoarsely, hoping she would take his words at face value and not feel he was being condescending – which he wasn't. She had taken control when he was incapable of even walking, let alone making decisions in the scramble to escape the manor, and with only minutes before their escape would have been discovered, she had found them a deceptively simple hiding place. Anything more concealing – such as a copse of trees – would surely have been searched first and they would have been discovered. This – little more than a dent in the moorland - was ingenious.

She eyed him for a second, clearly wondering if he was humouring her, but fortunately his sincerity must have shown and she smiled back at him. "Thanks. I found something similar yesterday evening after I'd followed you here; I thought I'd been spotted when I was trying to climb the wall of the courtyard, and I had to take cover down here. I wasn't sure it would be good enough in daylight but I've crawled up the hill a short way and I couldn't see you and Anne until I got within 10 feet of the ditch again. So I think we're good."

"You followed us?" he started, then dissolved into coughing again. Constance hushed him, her eyes softening as she waited for him to catch his breath.

"Yes... they were going quite slowly but even so I got left behind, and thought I'd lost you." A look of despair crossed her face at the memory of trying to run silently along the track behind the horses carrying Anne and d'Artagnan away from her, realising she couldn't keep up the pace for long. Eventually she'd had to stop for breath and could only try to track the cavalcade by sound. "I thought they'd turned north but there were several possible tracks and it took me ages to check each one. The first pathway just ended up at an empty sheep shelter, the second went to a farm but it was clearly deserted. The third went to that place... there were horses and men everywhere though. So I couldn't get too close until it got properly dark. Eventually I found the doorway we escaped through; I forced the lock and jammed it shut again so no one would notice it was open. Then I wasted hours creeping around inside the mansion, trying to listen at doors to find you. I didn't even think about the stables... I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan, I'm so sorry..."

Her voice cracked for a moment and d'Artagnan saw the tell-tale glisten of a tear in her eye as she put her hand tentatively on his hand. Her eyes dropped to his chest and he looked down at himself, seeing for the first time how much of a mess he was. He saw Anne's arm creep around Constance's waist in a gesture of comfort, and he had the feeling this was a conversation the two women had already had. He hastened to reassure Constance. "Hey, you did well to even find us, and help us escape, and keep us safe. Even if you'd found us sooner we weren't left alone to begin with, so you couldn't have done anything to get us out more quickly." It took him several goes to get the words out, but after a bit more coughing his voice was coming back more strongly.

"But you're in such a mess!" she virtually wailed, biting her lip and scowling when she realised how pathetic she sounded. He almost laughed, and just stopped himself in time; he didn't want to have to explain just how gorgeous she was when all her conflicting emotions chased themselves across her face.

"I'm fine," he started, then had to stifle a gasp of pain when she whacked him – startlingly hard – across the back of his head.

"Oh, _mon Dieu_ , I'm sorry!" she apologised instantly. Her face was at odds with her words though, as she glared first at her hand and then him, clearly blaming him for provoking her into chastising him. Behind her, d'Artagnan could see Anne stifling a giggle at Constance's behaviour.

"Constance, I really am fine – or I will be," he added hastily before she could tell him off again. "None of this is serious or life-threatening, I promise. But I need to get cleaned up. Where did you fill the water skin – is there water nearby?"

She looked dubious. "Yes, there's a small stream just down there," and she gestured to his right. "But we can clean your wounds here without you moving."

"It's fine. You two stay here." He checked carefully around as he spoke, then started to push himself stiffly to a crouch, suppressing the groan of agony that tried to escape his lips.

"d'Artagnan, this is ridiculous. Just stay here, you shouldn't be moving around!" She tried to grab him by the shoulder but dropped her hand instantly at the small hiss of pain her touch elicited from him.

"Which way?" he asked, tersely, ignoring her look of distress at the thought that she'd caused him pain, again. He just didn't have the energy to spare at the moment.

"Straight ahead, about 20 yards... but I'm coming with you."

"No, stay with the Queen," he instructed without looking around. He clambered stiffly out of the ditch, and bent low, moving at a low crouch which was agonising as his abused, bruised muscles protested, and the skin stretched and split over all the wounds on his torso and arms. By the time he reached the small stream he was gasping and sweat coated his brow as his pain spiked. Without pause for thought, he simply tipped himself with a muffled groan straight into the stream and sprawled, full-length, in the shallow cold water.

"Aahhh," he exhaled, shutting his eyes for a moment. The chill of the water was absolutely delicious on his overheated skin. He tipped his head further back and let the water flow over his face.

The blissful cooling sensation lasted for all of 10 seconds before someone grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. The shock made him gasp, then choke as he inhaled a backwave of water. For several seconds he could only cough and groan alternately as his stomach and ribs protested. Finally he got himself under control, managed two decent breaths, and raised his head to glare at Constance, who was still holding his arm and trying to pat him on the back and ask if he was okay, all at the same time. Anne peered anxiously at them from a few feet away. He tried to shake Constance's hand off.

" _Mon Dieux! A_ re you trying to kill me?" he hissed at her.

Constance looked shocked. "But I thought you had collapsed – you were under water..."

"Oh, by all that's holy ... Would you just leave me alone a minute?" he ground out through gritted teeth.

Constance wrinkled her brow. "I don't understand," she whispered almost to herself. D'Artagnan shut his eyes and counted to 10, never regretting more that he was in the company of women rather than his brothers. They would instinctively know what the problem was, and how to help him.

"Constance, I know you are trying to help and I appreciate it. But it hurts to talk ... and I don't have the energy to keep explaining everything. Please, would you just do as I ask? I'll be okay. I know what I need. I'm not used to... dealing with injuries... except with the others. I don't need a fuss... it's exhausting. I'm sorry," he added softly, seeing the hurt in her eyes.

"It's okay. I understand. It's just... I just want to help you."

"I know, and you are. You have. I'll tell you what I need, I promise. And right now, I just need to soak in water for a few minutes."

"But you'll get so cold, and your clothes..." she stopped herself, realising she was doing it again. He smiled, more easily now that the water had loosened the blood on his split lip a little.

"My clothes stink. And they will dry."

"But how will they dry in this weather – there's no sun, we can't light a fire... I know, I'm sorry, I'm arguing with you but I'm worried that you'll get too chilled. Why don't you let me sponge your clothes off..."

He cut her off, wearily, realising she just hadn't understood yet how exhausting it was, when he felt so awful, to have to explain himself all the time. And he really didn't want to admit, in front of the Queen of France no less, precisely why he was so desperate to get clean. But it seemed he would have to.

"Constance, just shut up a minute would you?" He winced as she frowned, half annoyed, half flummoxed. He lowered his voice, aware that Anne was only a few feet away, clearly trying not to listen to them arguing whilst not endangering herself by moving too far off. He took her hand and locked eyes with her. "My clothes stink of sweat, Constance, and blood, and vomit, and ... fear, Constance... I can smell myself and I just... want to get all of it out of my nostrils, my skin, my hair..." His voice, already hoarse from the smoke he'd inhaled only hours before, started to crack as his throat closed with the intensity of his emotions. He struggled to go on, but he had to make her understand.

More had happened last night than just injuries. He'd been vulnerable, his life in another man's hands for hours on end, his soul stripped naked, nothing left but the strength of his desire to survive and to protect. It had been the most terrifying few hours of his life, and he'd faced it with the Queen looking on, something he'd really struggled with. There was no way he wanted to her to realise... but Constance was still looking doubtful, even impatient, so he pushed the words out. "I ... pissed myself." Unexpected tears welled up his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently as he forced himself to go on meeting her eyes. "I just need you to understand how ... how... awful..." He couldn't go on. His throat closed up and he dropped his head, unable to face her gaze any longer. How could she possibly understand? Even Anne probably wouldn't understand and she had been there.

Then he felt Constance's hand squeeze his gently. He drew a shaky breath in, and opened his eyes, to find her looking deep into his eyes. He could see tears in her eyes and she seemed to be struggling for words. Eventually she simply whispered: "Shall I help you get those clothes off? I can rinse them out while you wash yourself...?"

A huge, almost overwhelming sense of relief washed over him. For a moment he couldn't speak; then he managed to nod and gulp out a heartfelt "thank you".


	19. Chapter 19: Respite

_A/N We'll be back with the other boys tomorrow but for now there's a bit of patching up to do while they're waiting for nightfall._

 **Chapter 19: Respite**

Safely back in their ditch Constance took stock. Anne had cleaned her hands thoroughly, and managed to wash her feet, face and even her hair, in spite of gasping at the temperature of the water. Constance was a bit wet herself from scrubbing vigorously at d'Artagnan's braes, shirt, and the bandages which had wrapped his feet, after first spending a good ten minutes slowly easing the bloody material away from his various grazes and cuts.

D'Artagnan was shivering from the cold but looked far less pinched and tense, having washed every possible trace of his ill-treatment away. However he was left with a sickening array of cuts and bruises. He'd managed to pull the ribbons of his braes and shirt back on but, on Constance's insistence, had left off his leather breeches so the burns on his shins could dry before being bandaged.

Constance had been utterly horrified, not just at d'Artagnan's admission of why he was so keen to have a proper wash but also at the sight of his body once he was undressed. Somehow everything looked worse when it was clean. Hidden under smoke, grime, and dried blood, she supposed it was possible to imagine his injuries weren't too bad, but once revealed on clean skin it just looked grotesque to have so much damage revealed. He had deep welts, some openly bleeding, from what looked like a whipping all over his chest, stomach, the tender under skin of his arms and even around his face and throat. There was an array of new bruises under the whiplash wounds, again concentrated on his face, stomach and ribs, but she could also see lurid boot-shaped bruises on his buttocks, hips, and thighs. Both of his eyes were bruised – one so puffy he could barely open it - and there were scrapes and bruises all over his face.

There were deep gouges around his wrists where the ropes had bitten into his flesh. The flesh on the palms of his hands was burned and weeping in places, with a ragged gash on the pad of one thumb. And that was just what she could see. Anne had filled her in on events in the barn so she guessed that his shoulders would be desperately sore from being forced for hours into an unnatural position with all his weight dangling from his arms. As a result of which, although he made light of it, she knew his fingers were still numb and unresponsive.

Those were the new injuries, on top of the old ones she knew about – the horrible hole in his right foot, which was cleaned now of the black dried blood but with puffy red skin around the entry and exit hole. The bite wounds on his left arm were also reddened and a couple showed signs of infection with pus oozing out when prodded, in spite of the deep cuts he'd made – yesterday? No – the day before - to try to drain the puncture wounds. On his left thigh there was an older, deep wound she hadn't even known about, which he said had happened in the sword-battle when she and Anne were fleeing towards the river. There was another shallower gash on his left bicep and, of course, the horrible mangled mess of his right shoulder which looked far worse now she could see it properly rather than hidden under crusty scabs.

She was also concerned at his pallor under all the vivid bruises, and the sweat on his brow after the exertion of getting to and from the stream and the effort of bathing himself. He looked vulnerable and fragile, and though she was trying to keep calm, inside she was feeling increasingly worried about him – and if, she was honest, about herself and Anne too.

d'Artagnan could barely stand; how could he protect them if they were discovered, let alone guide them safely back to Paris? She was a good scrapper herself, thanks to the training he'd given her with sword and pistol, and she'd proven her mettle already in this mission, but she had no illusions about her capabilities against a stronger, more experienced man in a full-out sword fight, let alone if they faced more than one opponent. She wouldn't be physically strong enough to last long. And of course they didn't even have a sword between them; now only her small knife was left.

D'Artagnan was feeling stupidly weak, and frustrated at his weakness. He lowered himself carefully back into the bosom of their ditch and shut his eyes momentarily, feeling exhaustion washing over him. When he opened them again it was to catch an expression of such concern on Constance's face that it made his heart lurch. Without thinking, he reached out to her and took her hand gently in his, bringing it to his lips in a gesture of such tenderness that she couldn't help but smile back at him. "We'll be fine, my love, I promise you. Think what we've survived already."

"Only just!" Constance couldn't help interjecting, looking pointedly at his battered body. Concern for him almost smothered the leap of her heart at the endearment he'd just uttered, apparently without realising it.

He grinned at her – only a ghost of the boyish grin she'd first fallen in love with, but enough to lighten her heart a little. "We just have to rest up until dark when we can get into the woods, then find the Paris road. We'll get to an inn, find horses, and we'll be back in Paris in no time."

She looked at him. "Is that all?" she began, but then she saw his eyes flick momentarily over his shoulder to where Anne was sitting trying to wring out her sopping wet hair. She winced, realising that he was trying to reassure Anne and bolster their spirits. "Right, well perhaps we'd better get you sorted out first," she said briskly, taking refuge in practicalities. "And whilst you're day-dreaming, maybe you can magic up some trail food. Were there fish in that stream perhaps?"

He made a wry face. "Not sure about fish - but I'm sure we can find something. I'll have a look for blackberries in that bramble area over there..."

"Oh, no you don't! We need to patch you up first. That gash on your thigh for example – it really needs stitching. It's oozing every time you move around. Why you didn't say anything..."

d'Artagnan wasn't exactly sure when he was supposed to have mentioned that wound – before or after they nearly drowned in the river, for example? – but wisely kept quiet. However, talk of stitches reminded him that he did carry a needle and thread in his tinder pouch, if it was still there ... Constance had been wearing his jacket since he'd approached the melon farmer, but he'd kept his belt on, feeling naked without it even though it had only housed his main gauche after the river.

With a twist of his stomach, he took in for the first time that he'd lost his dagger when he'd been captured. It was the one Athos had given him the day after he received his commission into the Musketeers, and he felt its loss keenly, not just because it left them basically weaponless, but also because it had been such a proud moment when Athos handed him the thin package without comment. He'd opened it with wide eyes, turning the blade carefully in his hands and letting the light bounce off the delicately etched handle. He'd felt overwhelmed at Athos' generosity but, more than that, at the gesture itself. It was the kind of thing his father might have done, had he still been alive, to commemorate his achievement. He had been speechless at the time, unable to do more than hug Athos with tears in his eyes, but the very fact that Athos had hugged him fiercely back was testament enough to the understanding between them. And now it was lost.

He heaved a sigh and dragged his mind back to the present. Suddenly noticing he was still holding Constance's hand he let go, flushing slightly with embarrassment, then dug his fingers into the small pouch which was strapped onto his belt. But he had little control over his fingers, which still felt numb, and with a frustrated growl he had to ask Constance to help.

"What am I looking for?" she asked, reasonably.

"Needle and hopefully some thread."

"A... What? You've had a needle all this time and you have only just thought to mention it?"

He caught sight of Anne as she looked up and grimaced, sympathetically, at him over Constance's shoulder. Sadly her gesture of solidarity only made things worse, as it made him grin, which annoyed Constance even more.

"It's not funny, you know, to be so stupid! You're carrying all these wounds and it didn't occur to you..." Muttering to herself she found the needle and dragged it out, glaring at him. He hastily straightened his face and tried to look contrite.

"I'm sorry, Constance, I genuinely forgot. There hasn't been a lot of time..."

"Rubbish! You're just an idiot so don't try to wriggle out of it. If you get an infection because we haven't stitched those wounds, you'll have only yourself to blame, you know!"

She threaded the needle efficiently. "Right, what do I do?"

He blinked. She was perfectly right, of course, some of his wounds could do with stitching and he was lucky they weren't too mucky or infected yet. But was she really offering to stitch him herself?

"Um... have you done this before?" he asked, cautiously.

"It's stitching. I'm a tailor's wife. How hard can it be?" she replied tartly.

"O...kay. Right. Well let's start with the thigh then," he said hesitantly, thinking that at least he could keep an eye on her. He knew from his own experience that pushing a needle into human flesh was completely different from stitching cloth, and takes a lot of determination and an iron stomach. He'd only done it once, on a small wound Aramis couldn't reach on his own right forearm. He could probably have done a better job left-handed than d'Artagnan managed, but Aramis had been adamant that d'Artagnan have a go. It had only needed three stitches but even so, d'Artagnan had thrown up in a bush afterwards, much to Aramis' amusement. It was after this that Aramis had given d'Artagnan his own needle and thread and made him carry it at all times, for which d'Artagnan was now very grateful.

"So you need to push it in quite firmly, and do it quick. The quicker the better in fact," he added, with feeling. "Go in at an angle. The first stitch needs to be very close to the end of the wound or it will gape open. And leave a long tail of thread or you'll have nothing to tie the knot with."

He watched as she bit her lip, hesitating over the wound on his thigh. It was about six inches long and deeper than he'd realised at the time; Aramis would probably have put another layer of stitches inside the wound to pull the muscle together, but he didn't have the right kind of thread for that. Just as well, judging by the sickly colour of Constance's complexion now.

"Come on, Constance, how hard can it be?" he teased, then yelped as she jabbed the needle fiercely into his thigh. Instantly she let go of the needle and apologised for hurting him.

" _Merde_ , Constance, of course it's going to hurt! You just have to get on with it. Try again," he urged her, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Hesitantly she took hold of the needle again where it was protruding from one side of the wound, and chewing again on her lower lip she managed to get it through to the other side. By then her fingers were shaking so much that she couldn't tie the knot. d'Artagnan tried to guide her, explaining what to do but in the end he took the thread from her and – using sight as much as touch, as his fingers still felt like they didn't belong to him and he couldn't feel the thread at all – he managed to tie a rather loose knot.

"There you go – the first one's always the hardest, but that's not bad at all." He was lying, of course; she'd ended up digging in too deep and he suspected the stitch would pull every time he moved his leg, but at least it was in. He used some of the washed bandage strips to mop the blood oozing from the wound and handed her the needle for the next stitch. Then saw she was wiping her sleeve across tearful eyes and realised she was shaking.

"I don't think... I can't do this, I'm sorry," she whispered. Immediately Anne was there, wrapping a consoling arm around Constance's shoulder and pulling her in for a warm hug. d'Artagnan watched, feeling strangely jealous and thinking he could do with a hug himself at the moment. But he gave her a reassuring smile and took the needle back from her shaking fingers.

Without further comment he pushed the edges of his wound together with his left hand, next to the first stitch, and drove the needle in firmly. Bloody hell, he thought to himself, sure that it hurt more doing it himself than when Constance had done it. Gritting his teeth and swallowing hard, he pulled it through and started fumbling again to tie the knot.

Out of the blue, delicate fingers pushed his aside and pulled the thread ends together, tying a deft knot in seconds. He looked up and found Anne giving him a tentative smile. "I'm not sure I can stitch, but I can do the knots if that helps?" she offered.

With Constance looking quietly on, he and Anne worked together, to get the wound stitched closed and the blood mopped up. Anne ripped a new layer from her skirt to bandage it and, once it was done, he had to admit it felt a lot more comfortable with the protection of stitches and bandage to hold it together.

He started to put the thread away but Constance stopped him. She had stopped shaking now and looked determined. "Could I try again?" He looked dubiously at his leg and she giggled, unexpectedly. "You should see your face... I don't mean your leg, idiot! You've done a good job, the pair of you. But your arm ... you can't do that one yourself, and it does need doing; I can see that wound gapes every time you move."

He hesitated, not wanting to put her through any more trauma, but she met his gaze with fierce determination so he nodded, and shifted around carefully so she could reach his arm more easily.

It hurt, and seemed to take ages, and several times he heard Constance retch quietly, but she kept going, with Anne helping to mop the wound, and eventually, to his relief, she announced it was done.

The two women argued briefly about trying to stitch his shoulder wound but he honestly didn't think he could cope with much more, and Anne pointed out sensibly that there was no way to pull the skin together across such a large area, so Constance (looking relieved) tucked the needle away.

"Now, what about the dog bites on your arm?" she asked. Damn. He was hoping she'd forgotten that. He was already feeling ridiculously tired and it was taking all his concentration to sit upright without sagging, wrapping his arms around his middle or being sick.

Constance saw him blanch at her words. "Well, what would Aramis do?" she demanded, her anxiety manifesting itself as aggression.

"He would probably apply a poultice of some kind, but I don't know the ingredients. Although..." he hesitated, remembering.

"What?"

"Well, my mother used to use plantain leaves for burns – I was thinking that might help Anne's hands." Constance's eyes dropped to his legs where he hadn't yet put his leather breeches back on and he shrugged. "Okay, my legs too."

"What do the leaves look like?"

He looked around, leaned over and picked a broad leaf from the middle of a tussock of grass. "Like this," he showed her. Anne peered at it over Constance's shoulder, intrigued.

"Isn't that just a kind of grass?"

"No, look underneath – see the ribs running the length of the leaf? That's why it's called ribbed plantain. There's another type which is rounder... You can just rub it straight onto a graze to get the juices, but for a burn it's better in a salve. Although we don't have anything to mix it with – I think you use oil and beeswax – but we can just crush it in some water."

"Will it help with infected wounds?" Anne wanted to know.

"Um... I don't know. It's more for healing than drawing out infection, I think."

"What did your mother use on wounds then?"

He thought. The only one he could remember was mustard seed, and he didn't have a clue what that looked like. However when he mentioned this, Anne's eyes sparkled. "I know exactly what it looks like. I saw some the other side of the stream – well, mustard anyway. It's all over the moor. I'll go and see if any has seeded."

She went to stand and d'Artagnan grabbed her sleeve to pull her back down. "Wait a minute! We can't just shoot off..." he looked cautiously over the low scrub growing along the ditch they rested in. There was no sign of life and he relaxed a bit. "Right, you keep to the ditch; no more than 5 minutes out there, and if I whistle you go to ground immediately, understand?"

Anne nodded meekly and he took his hand off her sleeve. "Okay, go!" He watched as she wriggled elegantly away, following the line of the ditch obediently. He turned to Constance to find her looking at him oddly. "What?"

She snorted. "You do realise that's the Queen of France that you're bossing around?"

He blinked. He had actually forgotten for a moment. Hopefully she would too... in due course. Meanwhile he had a job to do, which was to get them all safely through this day, and that meant a bit of hard work before he could rest.

"Right, Constance, you're on plantain duty. And can you give me your dagger?" She raised an eyebrow but handed it over, then headed the other way up the ditch to hunt for more plantain.

D'Artagnan kept a wary eye on the top of the slope, ready to warn the girls if he saw any movement. At the same time he was watching the brambles he'd seen earlier, and after a few minutes saw exactly what he was looking for. He weighed Constance's dagger in his hand, held his breath, and let it fly. He'd been good at this as a child though without his throwing knives he didn't hold out much hope, but to his own surprise, the dagger hit the rabbit pretty much where he'd aimed. The rabbit toppled over and lay unmoving on the grass.

Constance returned as he started to haul himself to his feet to retrieve it.

"I'll get it," she said. She was back within seconds, handing it over before shooting off again, explaining:"You were right, there are blackberries there."

He smiled, wondering where she got her energy from, as he skinned and gutted the rabbit efficiently. He dug a hole further down the ditch to bury the innards, then used the dagger to cut a square of turf away at the base of the scrubby bushes which edged their part of the ditch. By the time Anne and Constance returned, both bearing goodies bundled in folds of skirt, he had managed to dig out a small pit under the roots of the bushes.

Anne looked dubiously at the carcass of the rabbit. "Do we eat that raw?" she asked, apprehensively. She looked like she would give it go if he answered in the affirmative. He grinned.

"Don't worry, I'm not fond of raw meat myself."

"You're not lighting a fire though? Surely that's suicidal!" Constance sounded shocked.

"Um... it's going to be an underground fire." He showed her the small pit he'd dug and she frowned. "I haven't finished yet. It needs an air inlet, so I'll dig a small tunnel leading away from the base of the pit, in the direction of the wind. It may not work so well as there's no breeze today, but once we get the fire started, the heat will start to draw air through and that makes it burn hotter. You can get a decent fire even in a small pit because of the air flow. We'll put the turf back around the edges so there's only a small outlet, and any smoke will be dissipated by the bushes. If we keep it well fed it will burn without too much smoke anyway."

Constance looked far from convinced.

"Don't worry, I've done it before. My father taught me. He used to do this in the army, when they couldn't have a proper fire because it would give away their position to the enemy. This was a way of cooking food without showing the flames above ground. It works."

He went on digging, starting to make a hole in the bank a foot or so away from the pit he'd already dug. Constance watched, then frowned and reached over to put her hand over his where he was holding the dagger awkwardly. "Let me see your hand," she said, softly.

He paused, then turned his hand over for scrutiny. It was coated in mud, but his fingers were clearly oozing blood where he'd scooped the earth and stones out, and his palm was raw and bleeding where the dagger's handle had dug in and burst the blisters formed when he'd smothered the oily flames on his legs. Constance turned accusatory eyes on d'Artagnan, who looked defensive but said nothing.

"Sacrebleu, you are impossible! If that gets infected... Anne, can you help?" She grabbed the water-skin and tipped it unceremoniously over his hand; d'Artagnan squawked in a very unmanly way and snatched his hand away from her, nursing it in his other hand and glaring at her.

"That hurt!"

"Oh, and it didn't when you were digging?" she snapped back.

He grimaced, but wisely kept his mouth shut. To be honest he had been so focussed on getting the fire-pit dug that he hadn't noticed his hand hurting, but he didn't think she would believe him. Strange how everyone always assumed he was deliberately concealing injuries. Of course sometimes he downplayed things, but often wounds were just lost in a flood of adrenaline and it would only be after the moment that things started to hurt.

Anne put a comforting hand on his shoulder as she handed Constance a clean rag. "d'Artagnan, what do we do with this plantain?"

He smiled briefly at her, welcoming the distraction as Constance was trying to clean his hand, which hurt. A lot. "Once we've got the fire going, we can steep the leaves in some hot water, then use them as a poultice on the burns."

She looked dubiously at the hole he was digging, then took up the dagger and held it poised. "Here?" she checked. At his nod, she began carefully scraping at the soil.

An hour later they had finally got the fire burning to d'Artagnan's satisfaction. To his delight, and not a little relief, it was drawing well and burning hot with little or no smoke that he could detect. They'd balanced their water pot over the opening and heated the ribwort leaves; while the mixture cooled Constance had positioned the rabbit on a spit of wood over the fire, and now they could settle to wait for it to cook.

They were all nervous about being detected, only a few hundred yards from the mansion, but had seen no searchers for several hours now. d'Artagnan had kept the pile of excavated earth heaped up beside the fire's chimney hole, ready to dump on it if they needed to extinguish it in a hurry. However they all hoped it wouldn't come to that, not least because that would ruin their meal and the rabbit was beginning to smell delicious.

That too was a worry, so much so that first d'Artagnan and then Constance wriggled in different directions from their lair, to see if the scent of cooking meat could give away their position. But by this time – early afternoon, they judged – the morning's dull clouds had drifted lower and wrapped the countryside in a mist which was growing thicker by the hour, and helped to dampen not only smells but sounds, so they were reassured that they would not be detected by anyone further than a few yards from their hiding place.

They were all exhausted by now, as the stress of the last few days – and particularly the last night – plus their lack of sleep, of food, and the constant sapping of their energy from the cold and damp conditions, finally caught up with them. As soon as everything was done – wounds tended, perimeter checked, fire made, food prepared - d'Artagnan's body demanded respite and he literally couldn't keep his eyes open. He tried to start a conversation to distract himself, but every few seconds he stopped talking as his eyes slid shut again, until another snort or amusement from Constance would startle him back to awareness. Eventually she simply pushed him gently to lie down and told him firmly to shut his eyes for ten minutes.

"But I need to..." he started.

"No, you don't."

"I do – I need to keep watch for..."

"I'm doing that. You sleep." Her voice was firm and brooked no arguments. Still he tried.

"What about..."

"I'll watch for searchers, I'll check the food, Anne is safe. Sleep."

And before he could muster another protest, he found sleep stealing its warmth over him and claiming him, and his exhausted, battered body metaphorically rolled over and submitted.


	20. Chapter 20: Ashes

_It's high time we caught up with the others, don't you think? And they are catching up, I promise!_

 **Chapter 20: Ashes**

Athos had a split second in which to plan, as the five mounted soldiers surged towards him. Unexpectedly a memory flashed through his mind, of a lean figure ripping the scarf from his neck and striding towards an oncoming, sword-wielding horseman, and he reacted without further thought. As the foremost rider reached him he leapt; his outstretched gauntleted hand unerringly met the descending sword and he _yanked_. The rider hit the ground hard, and scant seconds later Athos had pulled the rider to his feet, holding him against his chest as a shield, his main gauche touching the man's bared throat. He glared up at the other soldiers who now milled uncertainly around him, swords threatening but not striking, and backed up, using his ever-obedient horse Roger as rearguard to avoid a strike from behind. Then he waited.

Hernán cursed, fluently, and issued a sharp command. The remaining riders backed their horses up and made space for him to approach, their swords still to hand.

"Impressive. You French are more ... resourceful, than I expected."

His hostage tried to twist and Athos tightened his grip ruthlessly. If he got out of his, he would remember to thank d'Artagnan, whose move against Le Maitre had inspired Athos when his brain was in danger of freezing. Not that he would admit that part, obviously.

"Where is the Queen?" Hernán's question was casual but Athos' heart leapt. They didn't have her!

Trying not to show his flash of emotion, Athos responded coolly. "You have a different understanding of negotiating to mine. In France, the one with the hostage generally asks the questions."

Hernán laughed. "I think six swords give me the advantage. You assume I care about my men."

He had a point. One soldier's life, against the prize of the Queen. Still... when in doubt, bluff. "You need your men to get you safely back to your ship. I assume you are docked in St Malo?" he enquired, politely.

Hernán's eyes flickered. Athos pushed his advantage. "You have nothing to gain by staying here, and everything to lose. Including your life, if you are still on French soil in a few hours when our regiment arrives."

If Hernán spotted the bluff, he gave no sign. "I cannot return without her."

"You _will_ not return with her." Athos was implacable and his calm certainty seemed to get through to Hernán, who sagged a little in his saddle.

Athos noticed something which Hernán appeared to have missed. If he was right, he would need to take advantage of the Spaniard's indecision quickly; he wanted to learn anything he could, in case of interference. "What did you hope to gain?" he pressed.

Hernán's nostrils flared. "I told her, at the Inn! I wanted her to negotiate with Louis. I do not want war!"

"Yet you came with an army of soldiers, and are prepared to take her back to Spain by force if necessary?" Athos kept his tone neutral.

Hernán snorted. "In enemy land, how many men would you bring to protect you?"

Athos smiled and answered without hesitation "Three. I only ever need three." He heard a small sound behind him and hastened on. "How many did you bring?"

Hernán glared at him. "Sixty...seventy. I did not count."

Sixty then, Athos thought, at most - probably less. "I don't want to start a war either. You should take your men and return to Spain. We will meet up with the Queen and she will smooth things over with Louis."

There was a flicker of something like relief in Hernán's eyes, mingled with admiration. This musketeer was outnumbered and alone, yet still he negotiated as if he held all the cards. For a long moment nobody moved then, slowly, he nodded, and signalled to his men. Reluctantly, it seemed, they sheathed their swords.

Athos pushed his hostage away from him and lowered his hands, but didn't sheathe his main gauche. He had a last question – the most important one, but how to phrase it? In the end he settled for simplicity. "The Queen?"

Hernán hesitated, then came to a decision. "I don't know. But your injured Musketeer..." Athos' heart lurched painfully as Hernán made him wait. "He was also... resourceful." And with that, he wheeled his horse and the group set off at a gallop.

Athos cursed, sheathed his main gauche, and cursed again. _Fils de pute_! What did that mean, he was resourceful? Was the emphasis on the 'resourceful' – or on the 'was'? He turned to retrieve the horses, mind whirling so that he barely acknowledged Porthos as he stepped out of the bushes behind him.

Porthos sounded almost disappointed. "You knew I was 'ere!"

Athos gave him The Look. "I'm surprised they didn't hear you sniggering."

Porthos looked wounded. "What do you expect when you talk about only needing three men with you?"

"What gave us away?" asked Aramis from the other side of the track, settling his harquebus back into his holster and sauntering over to join them.

"Birds went quiet behind me. And I heard the snick as you took the safety off."

"Damn!" Aramis looked thoughtful. "Why didn't you use your pistol?"

"Didn't want to attract more Spanish, if any were close."

Porthos grunted, taking a couple of the mounts from Athos and starting to lead them up the track. "They're in enemy territory so wouldn't want to attract attention by firing either. Nice, silent war we got ourselves."

"How did you find me?" Athos enquired, checking the leather on the palm of his glove and finding only a shallow cut from where he'd grabbed the sword.

"We were heading to meet you; heard voices."

"Thanks for covering me. At least we know how many soldiers he brought with him – if he was telling the truth."

"And it sounds like they haven't had their hands on the Queen." Porthos led Athos over to where they'd hitched their horses out of sight.

"What did he mean about d'Artagnan though?" Athos tried to keep the anger out of his voice. If only he'd kept him talking longer, maybe he could have found out more.

"Don't know, but we 'ave a plan." Quickly, Porthos filled Athos in on their investigations. Now more than ever it made sense to back-track, concentrating on where the Spanish were most in evidence, rather than trying to locate their missing threesome. "At least we got a direction now – Hernán was comin' from the same area suggested by the farmer who saw 'em last night. Come on." He gathered up two of the spare mounts and mounted his own gelding. Aramis handed Athos the reins to d'Artagnan's mare then stopped him with a hand on Roger's rein.

"Do you think she's alive?" Aramis asked, urgently. Athos saw the naked anguish in his brother's eyes, and stifled his irritation. "I think we would know if they were dead. _Any_ of them," he emphasised. Aramis's expression veered between relief and shame as he turned to mount up. Athos could only hope that his own instincts were right.

* * *

The sun had disappeared completely into the lowering mist by the time they came across the manor house, but when they spotted its extensive roofs and chimneys and the protective wall, they had all immediately known it would be an ideal base for a marauding army of any size. The three had separated to reconnoitre, but after watching for a good 30 minutes, none had detected any signs of inhabitation beyond a spiral of smoke coming from the rear, which they might have assumed came from a bonfire but for the fact that the place looked deserted.

Leaving the horses tethered in a twist of woodland well away from the track, the three worked their way around to the back, where Aramis had spotted a door in the wall which had been left open. Catching Athos' eye he moved silently to the doorway and cautiously peered through the gap. A beat later he had disappeared through the opening, closely followed by his two brothers.

Inside they fanned out immediately, but quickly realised there would be no hostile fire. The place _was_ deserted – apart from a body dumped untidily against the wall to the right of the gateway. Aramis bent to inspect it, straightening almost immediately with a puzzled look. "Throat's been cut," he told them quietly.

Athos's gaze flicked from the mercenary's body to Aramis' face then around the courtyard. Punishment killing? Or could it have been d'Artagnan's work, if indeed he had been brought here? He pushed a small ember of hope firmly down and indicated that they should spread out and search. He moved around to the front of the house, carefully checking windows for any signs of movement, whilst Aramis made for a back door which had also been left open. Porthos headed straight for the barn across the courtyard, from where smoke still drifted to join the chill fog which blanketed the sky.

Stepping carefully over straw ashes and blackened, fallen timbers Porthos moved deeper into the barn. Above him the dull sky showed through the patchy roof tiles but inside the barn was deeply shadowed. Something crunched underfoot and he stirred the ashes with a toe, finding shards of glass buried under the debris. Stooping, he picked up a long, sharp shard with his gloved hand and ran a finger tip over it, then sniffed his finger: the sticky coating smelled like rusty iron. Blood.

Heart hammering he took another step forward then stopped dead as he felt something soft under his toe. A gut-churning smell hit his nostrils as he peered downwards and he suddenly took a shaky step backwards, then another, as his eyes identified the shape lying amongst the fallen timbers and ghostly ashes.

He wasn't aware of making a noise, but suddenly Athos was by his side, glancing from his face to the body on the floor. Laying a cautious hand on Porthos' arm, Athos stooped to check the blackened body. Porthos stood frozen to the spot, breath coming in short gasps as he watched Athos gently roll the body onto its back, then straighten.

"It's not him," he said, quietly. Porthos shut his eyes for a second, breath whooshing out of his lungs in relief.

"Sure?" he checked. Athos simply nodded, expressionless but for the muscle jumping along his jaw. He reached out to squeeze Porthos' arm, giving the brief, wordless comfort which meant the world, before moving off to check further into the barn. Shakily, Porthos followed.

* * *

Aramis knew the house was empty as soon as he entered the kitchen. It had the feel of a deserted place; no breath stirred the air, no movement whispered along the floorboards. Even so he checked each room carefully, fearing and hoping in equal parts to find any hint that his brother might have been there. He found nothing – no ropes or chains, no hidden torture chamber, no bloodstains or discarded weapons. He noticed only disturbed dust, stacks of dirty plates, tracks of mud in the hallways, and dents in the musty mattresses, that spoke of brief and uncaring occupation.

Outside he pulled fresh air into his lungs with relief, and saw to his surprise that the daylight had leached from the sky as fog descended. Looking across he saw his brothers emerging from the barn, looking sombre. His breathing quickened as he noticed Athos carrying something carefully in one gloved hand. Looking up, Athos caught sight of him and stopped, then moved forward more briskly. No doubt spotting the dread which was flooding Aramis' features, he called out even as he closed the gap between them.

"He was here, but there's no body."

Walking beside him Porthos shot a horrified look at Athos. "Break the news gently, why don't you?" he muttered, speeding up to reach out to Aramis. "We found 'is dagger, and ropes that could have held 'im..." But Aramis wasn't listening, was reaching trembling fingers out to the item in Athos hand: a crumpled piece of grubby material, sodden with water and blood.

"That's from Constance's dress," Aramis whispered, not knowing if he was relieved or shocked to find evidence that at least one of the women had probably also been here.

"Indeed," agreed Athos, "but it doesn't mean either of them were definitely here. d'Artagnan could have had the cloth in a pocket, or as a bandage around his foot."

Aramis nodded, jerkily, realising his brother had the right of it. "But he was there, you think?"

Athos reached behind him, drew a familiar dagger where he'd tucked it into his belt. Aramis recognised it immediately as d'Artagnan's and knew there was no way he would have left it behind by mistake. It must have been taken from him, or perhaps abandoned in the panic of an escape attempt. "Was he held prisoner, do you think?"

The two who had searched the barn looked at each other, then Athos nodded, reluctantly. "I would say so."

"That fits with the farmer's evidence," added Porthos, "but it doesn't explain what happened here. Where are they now? What happened in the barn?"

Aramis suddenly grinned. "I think they found a cornered Gascon is more trouble than they realised."

The others simply looked at him. He chuckled. "Think about it. If they're trying to keep an invading army quiet, why set fire to a barn? Not exactly keeping a low profile, is it? And why leave that body behind? Even if it was an internal disagreement or punishment killing you'd think they would hide the evidence. No, I reckon this all points to a bit of Gascon mischief. I reckon they left in a bit of a hurry. And what does that tell us?"

Porthos was smiling now, too. "Ha! So maybe the pup is no longer a prisoner, right? Maybe they all took off after 'im..." His voice petered out as he considered the implications; he might have escaped, but was still injured, and possibly separated now from the women, and had who knows how many men from this manor house searching for him. "Bloody hell though. We'd better catch up with 'em before the Spaniards do."

Athos nodded decisively. All thoughts of heading for Paris to fetch help once they had more news had now vanished. It was even more vital they found the missing three as quickly as possible. "We're only a few hours behind, judging from the warmth still in the embers. Split up to scout again, see if we can work out the direction of the main search parties. If we find no trail, we'll - " he paused, striding to the doorway by which they had entered. "Any guesses as to why this was open?" he asked.

A slow smile spread across Porthos' face. "Got you. That body was killed nearby and left: could be d'Artagnan's work."

Aramis nodded. "And he would head for a nice dark corner to escape, not out of the main entrance. So, this way then?" He didn't wait for an answer but slipped back through the doorway and started scanning the ground beyond, whistling cheerfully to himself.

* * *

 _Fils de pute –_ son of a bitch


	21. Chapter 21: Voices

_They are getting close - definitely all on the same page of the map now!_

 **Chapter 21: Voices**

"Where is the Queen? Why did you abandon her?" Aramis' face loomed out of the darkness over d'Artagnan, who gasped. Where had he come from?

"Aramis, my friend –"

"You are no friend of mine. You lost the Queen! Where is she?"

"She's... she was right here!" Frantically, d'Artagnan looked around. He was back in the barn but there was no sign of the Queen.

"Why didn't you wait?" Porthos stepped up to him, stood nose to nose, and D'Artagnan flinched from the vitriol in his expression. "You just disappeared with them... Did you think you would keep the glory for rescuing them all by yourself?"

"What? No!"

"You stupid idiot! You always think you know best, don't you!" Athos shoved Aramis aside. His cool blue eyes drilled into d'Artagnan. Utter disgust curled his lip. "You've done it now! Tréville will kick you out when he hears of this!"

"I tried to keep her safe, you must believe me!"

"The King won't believe you. You disappointed him before. Imagine what he will do when he realises you _lost_ the _Queen_."

"I didn't lose her, she was right here!" His breath came in gasps, his face twisted with anxiety as he tried to explain himself, but now he could hear Spanish voices coming and he knew they would torture him again. Someone was tugging at his foot and he started to curl up into himself, ignoring the insistent voice which softly called his name. "No... The Queen - she must be safe..."

"d'Artagnan, open your eyes." Even in a whisper, the note of command was obvious and d'Artagnan complied, even as his mind scrambled to work out why his eyes would be shut, when he had just been looking around the barn... the barn that had burned down? Blinking, he focussed with an effort on the face looming over him and found the Queen looking anxiously down at him. Seeing he was now awake, she looked relieved. "You were dreaming. I was worried," she told him quietly.

He huffed a breath out through his nose and grimaced as all the aches flooded back into his awareness. "Sorry... Constance?" He started to push himself upright, then realised Constance was curled tightly into his side, fast asleep. Slowly his brain caught up with him as he realised they were still in the ditch. He glanced around, seeing the fog had thickened, and shivered. There was very little light left in the sky and the air was damp and chill. "Was I asleep long? And Constance – she was keeping watch, what happened?" He was suddenly horrified, realising that he had slept deeply and anything could have gone wrong. Why was Anne the only one awake?

"Relax, d'Artagnan, all is fine. You slept only for an hour or two. I dozed for a while, but then I saw Constance was struggling so I offered to take over. You both needed to rest."

"But that's... Your Majesty, I can only apologise. You should not have been left..." He stopped, seeing the mirth in her eyes.

"Are we back to 'Your Majesty' already? I was quite enjoying being Anne for a while." She spoke lightly but he caught a wistful expression flit across her face, and he started to apologise again, but she cut him off. "It's of no consequence, d'Artagnan, and I am teasing you. Call me whatever feels comfortable, and as for leaving me on watch, it was only for a few minutes, and I am glad to do it. You have both worked so hard to keep me safe; I'm glad to do my part."

He realised this was important to her, and he could not reject what she offered, so he smiled and thanked her. "The fog is thicker... we could move on soon."

"Possibly, although I thought I heard more voices just before I woke you. That's why I was worried, in case you were heard."

Alarm flooded through him and he sat up abruptly. Constance mumbled and protested as his warmth left her side, but quieted again almost immediately. "Was I talking aloud? Could someone have heard?" He remembered snatches of his dream and shivered again, not wanting to think about the accusations his brothers had hurled at him.

"Yes, but quietly. I could barely understand you, I'm sure it's okay." She picked up a skewer made from peeled willow and handed it to him, along with the water skin. He took both, grateful for the water but more dubious about the skewer which held a lump of blackened rabbit meat. "It's a bit overdone by now," she explained, superfluously. His eyes flickered and he tried to keep a straight face as he reluctantly picked a piece of leathery meat off and put it into his mouth. It tasted every bit as awful as the fish she'd cooked after the assassination attempt a year ago. "We made sure to save you some. It was delicious, d'Artagnan – quite the best rabbit I've ever tasted. I thought the wild garlic you stuffed it with was inspired..."

He swallowed with an effort and washed it down with a swig of water, wondering how he could lose the rest of it whilst she was watching him so closely. He looked up to thank her and found her blue eyes dancing merrily, then he blinked as she giggled softly. "Oh, d'Artagnan, your face! That piece fell in the fire. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist." She reached behind her and handed him another skewer with a perfectly cooked piece of rabbit. "Constance wouldn't let me near the cooking, for some reason. I think she must have heard about my ... lack of experience in this field."

He smiled then, a genuine smile, glad to see her looking almost light-hearted. "You look – better. Rested."

She nodded, settling to lean against the bank and regarded him thoughtfully. "I am. It's extraordinary how quickly you can get used to such a different life. Four days ago I had only ever slept in a bed, with sheets and pillows. I'd eaten outdoors but only from the best china. I don't think I've walked further than a few hundred yards around a manicured garden in years. And I've never had dirt under my fingernails – now look at me!" She peered at the filthy fingertips protruding from the bandages Constance had wrapped around her burned palms, then shrugged. "Ah well, no matter. It's what's underneath that counts. Away from the palace, all that's important is to have people around you that you trust." She paused, fastened her bright eyes on his weary face. "And you and Constance – you have risked so much for me. I can't thank you enough..."

"It's my duty, Your Majesty." In the context of this conversation, d'Artagnan made no apology for using her title. "Besides, we're not home and dry yet. We ..."

She interrupted him. "It's more than duty. You showed me courage and loyalty way beyond what anyone could expect. I'm so sorry for your suffering, d'Artagnan – but I am more grateful than I can express."

He lowered his eyes, uncomfortable with her words and the reminder of the experience they had shared in the barn. In tune with his discomfort she touched his arm lightly. "d'Artagnan, things happened in the barn – things I never want to see again."

"I know – Your Majesty I can only apologise – "

"What on earth for?" She looked honestly confused.

"For telling Sanchez that you were a ... call girl. For what you had to do to get the dagger from that guard. For what you saw..."

She interrupted him firmly. "You have nothing to apologise for. _Nothing_. You were – we were – in an impossible situation and you did what was necessary to keep me safe." She smiled suddenly."Your story was quite ingenious. Although I would be _exceedingly_ grateful if the King never heard the details of the barn," she added with feeling.

He nodded, only to happy to agree with her. Some things really wouldn't be easy to explain.

She looked away and bit her lip. "I can't help thinking about the man I hit with the lantern. He... Oh, d'Artagnan, I didn't mean to kill him! I wish..." She faltered, her eyes gleaming with tears held back by will and upbringing alone.

D'Artagnan tried to think how to reassure her, wishing – not for the first time – that one of the others was here to help him. He chose his words carefully. "You didn't kill him." She started to object and he hurried on. "No, listen. You did hit him, but only to knock him out. You couldn't have known what would happen."

"But if I hadn't hit him he would still be alive!"

"And we would be dead. Or I would be, at least – and you would be on your way back to Spain by now, in Hernán's hands. And France would be on the path to war." He hesitated, then ploughed on, seeing she was listening intently. "Everything has an effect on everything else. We're... we're like..." He floundered, trying to explain something he'd not had to voice before.

Out of the blue a memory of a dusty room came into his head: the warm hand of his mother in his; gentle conversation of women over the sound of treadles and the carding of wool; and golden light falling on vivid threads, moving faster than his fascinated eyes could fathom. He pushed down the sudden ache the memory had stirred, but grasped the image with gratitude. "Like the shuttles in a weaving loom. We push the threads around, like the shuttles – but we can't see the whole tapestry. Only the weaver knows the pattern."

She considered this, her eyes distant. "But... what if we make a mistake? Break a thread, mess up the tapestry?"

He ached to take the anguish from her, but nothing could undo what had happened. He sighed. "We do things all the time that could ... mess up the design. We make decisions, we take lives. We ... All we can do is try to be sure that our motives are pure. And try never to take a life unless there's no alternative. And to feel compassion – like you do now. The day I kill someone without thought would be the day I give up my commission. Athos once said that he remembers the men he kills, and it's true – you have to, or you lose your humanity. But it's the path we've chosen and we believe in what we do. You shouldn't doubt yourself either. You did what you had to do."

She swallowed, and brushed a hand quickly over her eyes. "I don't know how you live with it," she said, quietly.

"It gets easier. And we have brothers around us who understand, if we're struggling."

She nodded, and a sudden smile lit her face. "You are all very close." He nodded. "You are lucky." A wistful expression chased across her face, then was gone. She straightened her shoulders and he knew the conversation was over even before she spoke again. "Now, we must plan our return. You wanted to move at dusk?"

He nodded, looking around and seeing the light had almost leached from the foggy air. "I'm hoping we can get through the forest tonight, and find an inn tomorrow where we can borrow horses." He didn't allow himself to think about what would happen if they couldn't find a friendly inn, if the Spanish mercenaries had spread beyond this small area of France. Or if they couldn't persuade anyone to lend them horses. They had nothing to barter or leave as surety.

Oblivious to his worries about how to get them back to Paris, the Queen was thinking ahead to her meeting with the King. "It's important we get back as soon as possible," she said, unintentionally piling on the pressure. "If the King gets wind of my true intention for this trip, it could be disastrous. He will never understand why I invited Hernán to meet me, even if he hadn't brought half an army with him."

"He tried to kidnap you; we can testify to that."

"But I invited him! The King will not hear anything else once he knows that; he..."

She stopped as his hand shot out in warning. They had both heard something. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. There! A voice drifted through the fog, but it was too distant to make out the words or even the language. He strained his eyes to pick up any movement, but the fog revealed nothing but shadows.

His heart thundering, he moved quietly to push a turf over the opening of their fire which, he saw now, had virtually burnt out already. At the same time he pointed to Constance's slim dagger which was lying on the bank out of his reach. Anne passed it to him, her eyes wide, and he could see the pulse of her heart thrumming in a vein in her neck.

Who was out there?


	22. Chapter 22: Nightfall

_Perhaps I should say "sorry" at this point (hehe)._

 **Chapter 22: Nightfall**

Another snatch of conversation reached their straining ears, and this time they both heard the words more clearly.

" _Sanchez... fugitivos... el campamento_..."

His heart plummeted as adrenaline surged. Swearing wordlessly he turned to wake Constance, knowing that if the Spaniards stumbled across them in the fog, they would need to be ready to flee – or fight.

Hesitating with one hand hovering over her shoulder, he wondered what the chances were of him waking her, from what was obviously a sound sleep, without startling her. He glanced at Anne and saw the same apprehension in her face. Oh, well... he shrugged and leaned over. For a second he paused, his stomach flipping at the remembered familiarity of this moment. Then his lips moved the last half inch and he kissed her gently on the mouth.

She didn't stir.

Smiling ruefully, and suppressing the thought that his technique was clearly slipping, he kissed her again, lingering more this time. Almost without realising it, his hand crept to her face to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. The world held its breath and there was a warmth in his belly that had no business being there in this situation but, just for that second, he didn't care.

Then he heard another snatch of Spanish, a little closer, and the world roared in again. "Constance, wake up my love," he whispered in her ear, his face crinkling in disbelief at the term of endearment that, despite himself, had slipped out. "Constance...?"

She stirred. Her eyes flicked open and for a second he was lost in their inky blue depths. Then she lurched upwards so fast that her forehead smashed into his lips and he reeled back, tasting blood. "What are you..." she started, before he clapped a hand over her mouth, frantically shushing her. Furiously she grabbed at his wrist to yank his hand away, but at the same time her eyes darted around and she saw Anne crouched behind d'Artagnan, fear and anxiety written all over her face. Immediately picking up on the tension, Constance let go of his wrist and he took his hand cautiously away from her mouth, trying to think of a way of warning her which didn't involve a sibilant. Hush, shush, listen, Spaniards... he couldn't think of anything.

At that moment it became unnecessary to explain, as they all heard clearly, from barely twenty feet away, the sound of a throat being cleared and then phlegm being spat to the ground. Constance's gaze turned from accusing to alarmed, eyebrows raised in query.

D'Artagnan nodded, and mouthed the word 'Spanish'. She pushed his chest away so she could rise, and reached for the dagger in his hand. His face creased as he held it away from her, shaking his head. He pointed at her and Anne, and made a "stay" motion with his free hand. Her eyes flashed and she reached again for the dagger. He glared at her and she batted the glare straight back like a mirror. He had time to think how ridiculous this was. At this rate the Spaniards were going to find them still playing tug of war with the dagger when they tripped over them. He puffed his cheeks out – and handed her the dagger.

At the moment it was debatable which of the two of them was most capable of defending themselves without a blade. But he knew he would never forgive himself if something happened to her whilst she was weaponless.

Eyebrows raised, fixing her with his best Athos glare, he laid down the rules in sign language. He would circle around (pointing to the east of where he estimated the voices were coming from). She would creep up to the west, wait two minutes (two, count 'em, Constance, as he held two fingers inches from her nose) then attack (a slashing motion across his own throat). She nodded, a silent promise in her eyes. He looked at Anne, motioned to her firmly to stay put, then crept past her, keeping low in the ditch, and disappeared into the fog.

Constance locked her eyes on Anne, straining to hear any hint of where the soldiers were. Something, possibly a footfall, sounded nearby, then there was a burst of laughter that sent her heart thudding into her mouth. With a last look at Anne, Constance climbed out of the ditch and moved silently off to the left.

As soon as she was standing, she realised how impossibly thick the fog now was. She held the dagger out in front of her and could barely make out her own hand. Step by trembling step she felt her way forwards, terrified that at any second her outstretched hand would touch a warm body. How would she know if they had seen her, or heard her coming? What if she stumbled across d'Artagnan in the fog? What if...

Suddenly there was a flurry in front of her and dark shapes morphed and trembled in the thick air. There was a gasp and a cry of pain and her heart lurched again. She stumbled forwards and then from one step to the next a large shape loomed. Resolutely she hurled herself at it, reaching out to wrap her left arm around his shoulders and flashing the dagger up in her right hand towards his neck. But the man reacted insanely fast and jammed his left elbow backwards into her chest, then grabbed her left hand and twisted viciously.

"Oww!" White hot pain shot down her broken arm and tears sprang to her eyes. Frantically she bent her body, twisting with him to lessen the strain on her arm, and stabbing wildly with her right hand. Almost on the ground now, she caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan's white face over her assailant's shoulder, seeing him grappling with the second man, his neck straining with effort as the man's dagger crept towards his chest, stopped only by d'Artagnan's hands which clung desperately to the Spaniard's forearm... Then her own flailing arm hit something solid at last, and her opponent screeched a curse and released her left arm.

Staggering upright again, she saw him reaching for his sword and start to turn towards her. She knew she only had one chance to defend herself. Just as d'Artagnan had taught her, she used her speed and smaller body size to dart below his swing and bury her diminutive dagger into his stomach. He howled in pain and staggered back, dropping his sword to grab at his belly, and she quickly snatched the dagger back even as he moved, inadvertently slicing lower as it came away from his body. Blood spilled over his hands as his legs gave way and he sank to the ground with a sob.

Constance was frozen to the spot, watching him. She'd killed before – twice already on this mission, as well as the man threatening d'Artagnan at Gaudet's camp, back when she first met him. But those killings had been different. Quick, for one thing, and she had never seen their faces as they fell. She'd fired a pistol at a target in the dark, the first time. Two days ago adrenaline, and the need to protect Anne, had helped her pull the trigger when fleeing the clearing pursued by a distant Spanish soldier. Last night she'd reacted on instinct to slash the throat of the man threatening d'Artagnan and the Queen, outside the manor, and had barely stopped to look as she stepped over his body and dragged the pair of them out of the courtyard to safety, so relieved had she felt to have finally found them again.

She'd never before had to grapple and scrap for her life, to stab again and again trying to stop a man from hurting her. She'd never stood and watched the blood pump from a wound she'd inflicted; she'd never stood and watched as a man sank to the ground and died slowly, crying for his mother. The gentle woman in her wanted to say sorry, to comfort him... but how could she?

Perhaps it was worse because, just beyond, d'Artagnan was struggling for his own life and she could so easily see that this could have been him. She tried to move, wanted to go to help him, but her legs wouldn't obey her command and so she stood, rooted and swaying, as the life she had taken spilled to the ground in a growing pool of blood.

* * *

D'Artagnan was fading. He could feel his hands now, and command them to grip the forearm of the man threatening him with a dagger, but his arms had no strength and the dagger was creeping ever closer to his neck. Just beyond, he saw Constance stagger upright and her assailant slowly crumple to the ground, and knew she was safe for now, but he also knew that if he died, both she and the Queen would be lost.

Panting, almost sobbing in fear that he would fail, he saw the Spaniard begin to smile, thinking he had the pathetic Frenchman beaten, and a surge of anger gave him a final burst of adrenaline. Instead of trying to push the dagger away, he suddenly reversed his efforts and yanked the man's arm towards him, at the same time hurling his weight backwards. It was a suicidal move as he pulled both dagger and assailant down on top of him, but he had no choices left, and he at least had the advantage of surprise. The mercenary gave a startled cry as his prey hit the ground, rolling to the side and using his momentum to twist the dagger between their bodies as they fell.

* * *

Anne rose, biting her lip with determination, and crept tentatively toward the spot where the sounds of struggling had died down. Guided by the sound of harsh breathing, she moved slowly forward until she virtually bumped into the trembling figure of Constance. With a whispered cry of relief she turned Constance to her and touched her face, seeing the stricken look and tears spilling from her distraught eyes. "Constance? What – is it d'Artagnan?" Constance flinched and looked around as if wakening from a dream.

"d'Artagnan?" she faltered, then stumbled forwards towards a dark shape lying nearby. Staring at the body in front of Constance, Anne stepped carefully over it and followed, as Constance stooped and tugged at the arm of the man lying on the ground ahead. "Help me!" she cried, and Anne rushed to place her hands next to Constance's, hauling at the limp body and pushing him to the side as d'Artagnan's body was revealed underneath. Anne's hands flew to her mouth in distress but Constance dropped to her knees and cradled his face.

His eyes opened and he stirred, mumbling something. Constance sat back on her heels, absolutely drained, and it was left to Anne to kneel and help d'Artagnan to sit upright, noticing fresh blood flooding down his chest. "Are you hurt badly?" she asked, apprehensively, steeling herself to pull back his jacket to look.

"Not mine," he grunted. "His... Just didn't have the strength to get him off me." He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his head while he pulled himself together.

Anne sat back and reached for Constance's hand, worried by her stillness. "Are you okay?" she asked gently, rubbing at her cold fingers.

"Yes of course I am," Constance uttered, then burst into tears.

Anne could started to pat her on the back, feeling useless, but then d'Artagnan was there, wrapping his arms fiercely around Constance's trembling body and pulling her into his chest, smoothing her hair, then cupping her face and kissing her forehead, then pulling her into another long, long hug, rocking her gently and always talking, low words that Anne couldn't hear and knew she was not meant to hear. Tears filled her eyes as she watched, then jumped as d'Artagnan spared a hand for her, squeezing her shoulder and smiling at her briefly.

Now she could hear him as he gently prised Constance away from his comforting warmth. "It's done now, Constance, it's all done. You're safe, my love, we are all safe. You were so brave... so brave. It's all over now..." over and over, until her trembling lessened and she was able to raise her head and look him in the eye.

"I ... I k-k-killed..." she stumbled.

"I know, I know, but you had no choice my love, you had to do it. He would have killed you. I'm so sorry you had to do it, so sorry, but you were so brave and it's all over now. It's all over. We're safe..." and finally his words got through to her and she heaved a huge sigh. Smoothing his thumbs gently over her face he brushed her last tears away then dropped his hands to her shoulders. "All right?"

She nodded, resolute again, and rose to her face, brushing her hands over her dress – my dress, Anne remembered with a start. It didn't look much like the simple but elegant gown she had started this trip wearing, only a few days ago. Constance looked up, caught Anne's wistful look and pasted a smile onto her face.

"Right, Your Majesty," she said briskly, "let's get going, shall we?"

Anne looked at d'Artagnan who was labouring to his feet. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the blood seeping from under his jacket which had lost all its fastenings by now. "I thought you said the blood wasn't yours?" she asked, pointing at his left side. He looked down. "It's not mine," he repeated, but reached a hand under his jacket then winced. "Well, maybe a little bit is mine..."

"d'Artagnan!" Constance snapped at him. "What is Aramis always telling you?"

"Um – don't talk with my mouth full?" She glared and he held both hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, I didn't realise! It's just a little cut, nothing to flap about."

"I do NOT flap!" she said crossly, pulling his jacket back to inspect it for herself. He was right, for once – it was a long slice across his ribs, but shallow, and the bleeding had almost stopped. She poked at it and he winced, jerking back.

"Er - ow?!" he tried, looking as if he was hoping for sympathy but not expecting any.

"I thought you said it wasn't bad." No, definitely not getting any sympathy from Constance. Anne suppressed a grin.

"It's not, unless someone sticks a finger in it – then it does hurt, actually."

She went to prod it again and this time he caught her hand in his and raised his eyebrows at her. She frowned, but dropped her hand. "I don't think it needs stitches."

"Well I'm glad you agree because we have no thread left – and I don't want to hang around here any longer in case there are any more mercenaries around. Are you both alright to go on, before anyone else stumbles into us?"

"Oh no, wait!" Anne suddenly whirled and disappeared before either could react. Muttering under his breath d'Artagnan made to follow her but she reappeared within moments, clutching the cloak and water skin from the ditch. "Thought we might need these," she smiled, draping the cloak around Constance's shoulders, ignoring her token protest. Even Constance couldn't bluff her way past the trembling that still shook her hands.

Smiling his thanks for her foresight, d'Artagnan swept a hand out in an echo of a courtly bow, inviting the two women to go first. With a tut and a slightly sarcastic "thank you," Constance took Anne's hand and the two set off, with d'Artagnan following stiffly behind.

* * *

A/N: " _fugitivos... el campamento_..." Fugitives... camp

So, yes, a little apology to those who hoped it was the Inseparables' voices they heard. What can I say? It's hard to track in fog... Just so you know it is pretty much finished now and there will be 30 chapters in all. In case any of you are worried about your fingernails.


	23. Chapter 23: Forest Trails

_We are so close now..._

 **Chapter 23: Forest trails**

It felt wrong, thought Constance, that the fog seemed just as thick amongst the trees. She couldn't remember walking in a forest in fog before, and it was strange seeing thick tree trunks disappear three feet off the ground. There was a sort of ghostly glow all around them, which d'Artagnan said came from the faint moonlight hitting the top of the fog above the trees. All sounds were muffled in the thick, damp air, which gave her the heebie jeebies. They were following a narrow trail which wound between the densest trees, around bushes and mounds of brambles stretching higher than their heads. d'Artagnan was now leading the way, treading cautiously, his eyes straining through the white glow surrounding them. Anne followed with Constance taking rear guard, feeling the hairs prickling on her neck at the thought that someone could be walking a few feet behind her and she wouldn't know it.

Suddenly d'Artagnan stopped so abruptly that Anne actually bumped into him. He held a warning hand up, not taking his eyes off a spot off to the right of their track. Constance found herself reaching for Anne's hand and squeezing it, not quite sure if she was giving, or seeking, reassurance.

d'Artagnan turned his head slowly and motioned to them to stay right there. Constance nodded jerkily, blinking as he seemed to vanish the instant he moved off. She strained her ears to work out where he was, but heard nothing for several long, anxious moments. Then she thought she heard a slight scuffle more to the right. Her head whipped around and Anne stepped so close that she could feel the Queen's breathing, more than hear it. They stood frozen as Constance tried to think what to do if the noise was made by an enemy; which way would they run – forward, the way d'Artagnan went, or back to the edge of the forest. She had just decided on forward in the hope that d'Artagnan was still alive and ahead of them, when he appeared behind her, and a step away from her.

She jumped – both women did – and only just managed not to shriek. He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, and she could see the strain etched on his features. "Sorry," he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her his way. "You need to stay here for a bit." He tugged her gently, so she had to follow him back along the path, with Anne still holding her other hand and following close behind.

"No, wait, why? I think we should stick together."

He stopped and faced her, shushing her lips with his bandaged fingers. "It's not safe to move around. I barely saw that sentry, and there will be others around. I need to move without worrying about you both." He looked around at the clumps of brambles surrounding this bit of path which was a little more open. She saw the direction he was looking and immediately realised what he had in mind.

"You can't just leave us here! Under a ... thorn bush, for goodness sake!" she whispered crossly at him.

"It's NOT SAFE!" he hissed back. "We counted around 12 men heading into the forest during the afternoon, didn't we? Well I think they are camped here, which would explain the sentry. He wasn't standing there for fun, and where there's one, there will be more. We can't risk running into them in this fog."

"But it's fine for you to run into them?"

He glared at her, both frustrated and worried about the time wasted in arguing with her. Fortunately at that point Anne spoke up. "D'Artagnan, you do what you think is best. Where should we wait?"

His eyes thanked her - and Constance huffed, knowing she'd lost the argument.

He cast around and quickly found a large mound of briars with what looked like a fox or badger trail running through it. Hoping whatever had made the trail was not currently in residence, he sank carefully to his knees, trying not to wince as the new position pulled at every aching muscle and torn skin on his body, and tried to part the brambles to make an easier passageway for the women, then realised they would get torn to shreds. He sat back on his heels, frowning, then inspiration struck and he turned to ask Constance for the cloak – finding her already holding it out to him with a resigned look on her face.

Tenting it over his head, he managed to drive it into the thicket, creating a larger tunnel through which the women could crawl. After a few feet they were able, with difficulty, to curl into the centre of the thicket with only a few "ow's" and not a little muttering from Constance. d'Artagnan pushed the cloak further in so they could use it to keep warm, and passed in his doublet for them to sit on. "I'll be as quick as I can but whatever you do, don't come out from here until you hear my signal," he instructed. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing, but then he remembered the rush of fear he'd felt just now as he'd nearly run into the Spanish guard with the girls right there, and he knew he had no option. Giving them one last reassuring smile he crawled backwards out of the brambles and straightened up with a grunt.

Back where the sentry had fallen, d'Artagnan took the Spaniard's dagger, smaller than a main gauche but very sharp. Stepping carefully he moved silently into the fog.

* * *

The inseparables had searched both the moorland behind the manor house and the paths and tracks around it. In the fog, even Aramis' sharp eyes and Porthos' tracking instincts drew a blank. After a couple of hours it was completely dark and the fog was so thick that Athos declared it pointless continuing to try to track them. There had followed a silent but deadly argument between Athos and Aramis, as Athos argued for heading towards the Paris road, believing that d'Artagnan would have done the same, and Aramis insisted that they must have missed d'Artagnan and should keep trying to pick up his trail.

It only ended when Athos, losing patience, gripped Aramis by both shoulders and stood virtually nose to nose with him. "Look at my eyes," he instructed Aramis, calmly.

"Are you insane? We don't have time for this!" Aramis spluttered, his eyes darting from Athos to Porthos and back.

Athos gave his shoulders a shake. "Just look at me!" This time it was definitely a command, and Aramis turned his burning eyes on Athos. "I'm not leaving them here," Athos told him softly. "We will find them, tonight. You have my word."

The ensuing silence wrapped itself around the two men in its intensity; Porthos fancied it was tangible, like a tendril of mist circling them both and drawing them together. Slowly Aramis closed his eyes and his forehead tipped forward until it was resting on Athos' shoulder. Athos stood immobile for a second, looking over Aramis' head to meet Porthos' gaze. Porthos gave a firm nod, and Athos closed his own eyes for a second and slipped his hands around Aramis' shoulders to give him a rare Athos hug – intense, silent and precious.

A small back-slap later and Athos was stepping back from Aramis, giving him a moment to compose himself before turning to Porthos and indicating that they should return to the horses. Porthos squeezed Athos gently on his shoulder before leading the way back along the path to the tree line halfway up the valley where their horses were tied.

Mounting up they pushed the horses the rest of the way up the valley side until they met the Paris road. There they kept to a walk, peering into the fog and relying on their hearing for any signs of the others.

After a couple of miles, Aramis swung his mare across the road, forcing Athos to a stop behind him. His jaw was clenched but he spoke quietly, clearly trying to remain calm and not lose his temper again. "Are you sure about this, Athos?"

Athos was grateful that he phrased his doubts as a question rather than challenging Athos outright. As a result he was more honest in his response. He was, in fact, having to push his own sense of panic down firmly, knowing that with every hour that passed, their chances of stumbling across the others diminished. "No, I'm not sure..." He sighed, looked at Porthos then Aramis, hoping one or the other would have a suggestion, but was met with twin looks of stress rather than clarity of purpose.

Athos felt like groaning or punching something. They were so close, he could feel it; yet close – in this fog and surrounded by literally miles of dense woodland – was no good. They could be ten feet away and he wouldn't have a clue! He should have headed straight for Paris this morning as soon as he realised his message had not got through. He should have...

"Horses! Scatter!" Porthos' growl of warning dragged him from his spiralling thoughts and sent a surge of adrenaline through him as he too registered the drumming of fast approaching horsemen. Quickly he urged his horse towards the trees, seeing his brothers do the same, each hauling a spare mount with them, then they all whirled to face the road as soon as they were a few paces into the woods. Seconds later a group of five horsemen shot past them and disappeared instantly into the fog, heading in the direction that the Musketeers had just come from. Athos only caught a glimpse of the riders but that was enough – they wore the same uniform as the attackers at the Pheasant Inn and the guards accompanying Hernán. Dropping the reins of the horse he was leading he took off after the Spaniards, pistol levelled to fire as soon as he had a shot. Porthos and Aramis wasted no time in following.

The Spanish soldiers didn't hear their approach over the sound of their own horses until the Musketeers had nearly caught up. Just as the rearmost rider shouted a warning, Aramis fired, followed quickly by shots from the other two; one Spaniard fell from his mount and a second yelled, his horse quickly slowing as the rider slumped over the saddle. The remaining three riders swung their horses around to face them but had barely drawn their own pistols before Athos and Porthos were upon them, brandishing their swords and both roaring their challenges. Athos was aware of Aramis holding back, steadying his mare, having to wait for a clear shot with his second pistol as the other five men met in a crashing of horses and clashing of steel.

The Musketeers were skilled and experienced in fighting from horseback, and Athos quickly got the measure of his target, a tall, black-clad Spaniard who fought with his heart but was lacking in experience. After several hits that sent shudders up his forearm, Athos switched his sword to his left hand, nudged Roger using leg commands and body weight alone to the Spaniard's unprotected left side and whipped a vicious slash across the man's chest. His opponent immediately sagged forwards and his sword arm drooped.

Athos didn't wait to see him drop, but whirled Roger towards Porthos, seeing Aramis in the corner of his eye and changing course slightly so as not to cross his line of fire. Porthos was weaving between the remaining two Spaniards, slashing on both sides as he urged his rangy cross-breed to a sliding turn on his haunches, swinging around to face the rider now on his right and leaving the other to Athos who was now within range. It took the pair of them only seconds to each defeat their man – Athos with a lunging stab under his target's sword-arm, and Porthos, with an impatient grunt, reversing his hold and whacking his startled opponent across the forehead with the handle of his sword.

Athos tipped his chin at Porthos and acknowledged his economy of effort with raised eyebrow and an understated "nice move."

Porthos grinned and settled his hat on his head as he re-sheathed his sword. "Got me warmed up nicely, that did," he said conversationally, steering past the bodies and whacking a riderless horse on the haunch to move it out of his way. "Hey, what happened to you, Aramis? You savin' powder or what?"

Aramis was leaning his forearms on the pommel of his saddle having re-holstered both his pistols. "Nah, just like to watch you work up a sweat is all," he said, deadpan, then ducked as Porthos swatted at him as he passed. In reality the fight had been so quick, and the movement of horses so rapid, that he hadn't had a good shot, and neither of his brothers had ever looked in any trouble so he preferred not to risk shooting a friend in the melee. He nudged Fidget to turn, ready to rejoin Porthos on their previous route, then paused as he noticed Athos was still facing the other way. "Athos?"

Athos glanced back at him. "Where do you suppose they were going?"

Aramis cocked his head on one side as Porthos rejoined him. "Good point," the swarthy Musketeer commented. "Think we should take a look?"

Athos looked at them both. "This area does seem to be very popular," he said, slowly. "It looked as if the house was meant to be their base, but they left it – perhaps thinking the barn fire might attract unwanted attention. So ..."

"So maybe they've had to set up another base nearby?" Aramis mused, catching on to where Athos was headed with his thoughts.

"Yeah, and with all this nice forest around..." Porthos finished for them.

"I'll get the other horses and catch you up. You two start looking. And listening," instructed Athos, heading back north to where they'd abandoned the spare horses a few minutes before.

After a frustratingly long search, it was Aramis who finally notice a couple of fresh hoof prints near an inconspicuous path leading into the forest on the same side of the road as the manor house. They had ridden this section of the road several times before spotting the trail. With relief, they rode a short way back to a sparser area of woodland where there was room to tie the horses out of sight of the road, then made their way back to the trail on foot. Moving cautiously now, pistols in hand, they padded softly into the undergrowth.

After an anxious few minutes they came across a group of twelve horses corralled into a small clearing, all saddled and bridled, but most with the cool skin that indicated they had been left here a while. Porthos held a hand up and the others waited while he worked his way around the clearing. Only the odd toss of a horse's head gave any indication where he was in the misty area, and both nearly jumped as he reappeared, grinning, in front of them. "One guard," he whispered, then drew his gloved finger across his throat to indicate that guard's fate.

They moved on cautiously, following a much narrower path away from the clearing. The trees became sparser as the ground started to slope downwards, and gradually they became aware that they could hear the distant sound of voices. All three crept closer, moving cautiously down the increasingly steep slope, using trees and bushes to steady their feet, until they could see the glow of a small campfire through the thick fog. They weren't close enough to see the men but they could hear them, enough for Aramis to make out a few words.

"Sounds like they're waiting for someone to join them – the _jefe_ – chief." He listened a bit more, then a slow smile spread across his face. "They're a bit apprehensive." He paused, glancing at his two companions, who waited impatiently, knowing that look. "Seems they've been looking for a couple of prisoners and they're a bit worried about the _jefe_ 's reaction since they haven't found them yet." He drew in a deep breath and beamed at them both, suddenly aware of the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders. "They haven't got them!" he finished, joy and relief bubbling out of him, even at a whisper.

Porthos clasped his shoulder and Athos let a rare smile cross his features fleetingly. "Good," he commented.

Porthos snorted at his typical understatement, but kept his peace. He could see the relief on both their faces. "Right, do we wipe 'em out, or keep lookin' for the whelp?" he asked, bluntly.

Athos' eyes flickered as he considered. "Twelve men, assuming they were all mounted."

"We've faced worse odds – and it's only eleven."

Athos nodded, remembering the guard Porthos had taken out near the horses. "They'll likely have set other guards. I think we should split up, work around the camp. Take out any sentries, reduce the odds. If d'Artagnan has headed for Paris he'll be safely away, but if not, the more we eliminate the better his chances are." He watched Aramis as he spoke, thinking the marksman would be the hardest to convince, but Aramis was nodding. The plan made sense. Quickly they headed back up the slope, away from the camp where they anticipated guards might be stationed.

Porthos elected to work alone, leaving Athos with Aramis. His brother still seemed out of sorts and he wondered if the wound on his arm – or the gash on his ribs – was bothering him. Aramis had denied it that morning while they were waiting for Athos. How long ago that seemed now. They were all weary beyond words, having searched relentlessly all day, but he felt – they all felt – that they could not stop now that they knew exactly how close by d'Artagnan had been that morning.

It seemed the invaders had made camp at the bottom of a natural bowl, a deep indentation in the forest where the trees were thinner. It might have made sense in good conditions, allowing them a clear view of any unwanted visitors, but in the fog Porthos reckoned they were idiots, as the Musketeers could get close unseen and attack with the advantage of high ground. Meanwhile he focused on moving silently along the rim of the dell.

* * *

d'Artagnan was flagging. The adrenaline rush - from nearly being caught on the moorland, the flight into the woodlands, realising there were Spaniards patrolling, finding somewhere for the women to hide, and then heading off on his own, searching for any more sentries in the ever-present fog - had long since worn off. His whole body ached with a fierce intensity that drained him and made it almost impossible to think about anything other than controlling the pain. Both feet were numb with cold, for which he was thankful as he couldn't feel the scrapes and bruises he suspected his toes would be suffering. However the wound in his right foot still sent a sickening deep pain from his foot to his hip every time he put his weight on it, like a blade stabbing up through his bones at every step. The new slice across his ribs was shallow but burned painfully with every breath, and his shoulders ached abominably. The dog bite on his left arm, which he had almost forgotten about, was starting to throb and he feared the puncture wounds might be infected. Add to that his weakness from loss of blood and lack of food, plus the overwhelming exhaustion of being mostly awake (apart from several periods of unconsciousness) for almost four days now – he really was running on empty.

His Gascon stubbornness was probably the only thing keeping him going now – that, and his determination not to fail in his duty to protect Constance and the Queen. So he set his jaw, hefted the stolen blade firmly in his hand, and stepped noiselessly through the fog, knowing he could not rest until he'd found a safe path through the forest.


	24. Chapter 24: Enemy Camp

_Your patience is rewarded ;)_

 **Chapter 24: Enemy Camp**

Porthos moved silently through the fog, then froze as he heard a cough off to his left. Standing with one leg poised, like a field spaniel ready to retrieve, he swivelled his head slowly, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound.

A tiny rustle, then the snap of a twig, gave him the direction and he headed that way, stepping carefully, dagger drawn. This bloody fog! His eyes were flickering in a vain attempt to peer through the ever-swirling tendrils.

There! Ten paces ahead, looking away, a dark figure stood looking lazily around. Porthos' hand tightened on his dagger as he shifted his grip, his brain working out the necessary steps to bring him up behind the guard even as he stepped onto the same pathway. Then a swirl of movement ahead brought him up short and he wavered, weight forward but trying not to take the step, as he realised another shape had materialised out of the mist.

Both figures blended for a second; there was a tiny sound, like a sigh, then a man's shape folded slowly to the ground, like a shadow slipping away.

Porthos blinked. The second figure was neither Athos nor Aramis, but who else would be in this forest, this night, attacking a Spanish guard with such deadly skill? As if sensing his presence, the figure slowly turned, and their eyes locked.

"d'Artagnan?" breathed Porthos. He squinted, disbelieving his own eyes. The man had the shape of his brother, but looked… ragged. Torn, filthy shirt, ripped leggings, bare feet wrapped in bandages; hair dripping in the wet air, face lost in shadows. Only his eyes burned bright as they met his own. And then a smile spread slowly across the dark, beloved features, and Porthos' heart soared.

"It _is_ you!" he exclaimed softly, then strode towards the longed-for figure, arms stretched wide, an answering grin splitting his own face. "My brother!" he breathed.

Then stopped, bewildered, as d'Artagnan took a swift step backwards, holding up his hand to stop him approaching.

His eyes searched d'Artagnan's face, then glanced around quickly, suddenly wondering if danger rose behind him to drive d'Artagnan back. But the woods were silent, breath held, awaiting the reunion which d'Artagnan apparently resisted. "What is it, brother?" he queried gently, half lowering his arms, but keeping his palms up, dagger dangling unthreateningly from his right hand. Was his brother concussed perhaps? Did he not recognise him? He had not yet uttered a word. Apprehension clenched at Porthos' stomach as he waited, patiently, for a cue from d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan saw the confusion chasing over Porthos' features and lowered his hand quickly. "Sorry," he whispered. "Just… not up to a Porthos hug right now."

Porthos peered at him, uncomprehending, and took another step forward. "Not up to…?" Then his brain caught up with his eyes, and he realised the mud coating his brother's grubby shirt was mostly not in fact mud, but blood, and some of the shadows on his face were in reality dark bruises. "You're injured. How bad is it?" – closing the gap swiftly and reaching out.

d'Artagnan again took a step back. "Most of it's not mine," he reassured, hoping it wasn't too unforgivable a lie. There was danger all around them, and he couldn't weaken now. "Are you alone?" Still whispering, eyes constantly checking around, but even so the urgent longing in his voice was unmistakable.

Porthos hastened to set his mind at rest, hands twitching by his sides as he squelched his desire – his _need_ – to touch his brother, to offer and receive the comfort of his presence. "They are here." He didn't miss the way d'Artagnan's shoulders dropped an inch or more in relief at his words. "What of the Queen? And Constance?" he queried, almost scared to hear the answer.

"They are well, and hidden not far from here. But Porthos, the woods are over-run; we have to …"

Porthos interrupted, anxious to give more reassurance even as his heart soared at the news that both women were safe. "We know. We've found their main camp and twelve horses." d'Artagnan nodded: twelve sounded about right from those they had seen moving into the forest during their day on the moorland. Porthos continued: "The others are working around the camp so we can knock out any sentries before attacking the camp. We thought to eliminate as much danger as possible before resuming the search for you and the girls."

d'Artagnan grinned suddenly, if lop-sidedly. Porthos tried not to react as he picked out more of the damage to the Gascon's face in the eddying mist.

"My thoughts were similar." d'Artagnan kept his voice low and constantly checked around him for any movement. "We needed to pass through here to get to the road, but I didn't want to wait for them to surprise us. I planned to pick them off one by one, to ensure it was safe to bring the Queen through."

Porthos swallowed, hearing the painful loneliness in d'Artagnan's plan. The lad had hidden the women, then headed into a forest where he believed at least twelve armed and skillful enemy soldiers awaited him, ready to face them all, if necessary, for the chance of safe passage for the Queen. He cleared his throat, finding his voice suddenly thick with emotion. "We should meet up with the others. Are you fit to move on?"

d'Artagnan nodded. "Which way?"

Porthos indicated to their left. "This was the first guard I've found. Athos and Aramis must be half way around the camp by now so hopefully they've had more luck." He stepped around d'Artagnan and over the body of the Spaniard d'Artagnan had despatched so efficiently.

d'Artagnan stooped to retrieve the dead man's dagger, adding it to his belt as he moved to follow Porthos. "I've found three so far." He didn't need to add that none of the three still lived.

Porthos was impressed. The lad was moving stiffly, limping heavily and every inch of his body suggested exhaustion, yet he'd taken out three men silently and with just a dagger. He was fast becoming a Musketeer to be reckoned with. Their missions, in the early weeks after d'Artagnan had earned his commission, had been largely uneventful and Porthos had found it hard to lose the feeling of needing to look out for d'Artagnan. Yet recently the Gascon had been instrumental in the retrieval of General de Fois from his Spanish imprisonment, going ahead alone and finding a way into the heavily guarded castle. Then he had kept the King alive during their time with the slavers, and taken it upon himself to despatch the gang's leader Le Maitre. And he'd clearly been through hell since the attack at the Pheasant Inn; he looked ready to collapse, yet gave no hint of that in his manner which was calm and matter of fact. It seemed their pup was fast growing up.

Their pathway veered off to the left, so Porthos picked a course between dense thickets of brambles, looking for another path closer to the campsite.

d'Artagnan followed silently, frequently pausing to listen before catching up. The first time he did this, he experienced a strange shock as he turned and met Porthos' eyes where the big man had waited for him. Porthos was here! Really here, with him! Without the physical confirmation of a hug, he was finding it hard to believe that his long, lonely battle for survival in this god-forsaken corner of France might actually be coming to an end. He was so tired, physically and mentally spent, that he realised he had hardly reacted to seeing Porthos at all, other than to shy away from his touch.

But he just couldn't let himself relax for a second, until he knew everyone was safe. From the compassionate look in Porthos' eye, the big man understood this only too well. d'Artagnan firmly squelched the desire to fall against the man who was their rock, their keystone, to shut his eyes and give up responsibility to someone else. Not yet – but soon, he promised himself.

Suddenly there was an explosion of noise in the darkness; shouts and gunfire echoed around, followed swiftly by the twang of steel on steel. Porthos swore and changed direction. "Stay there!" he flung over his shoulder, veering towards a slope on their right.

d'Artagnan snorted. As if he was going to hang back whilst his brothers fought! He headed after Porthos, pulling the second blade from his belt and followed more slowly down the slope.

By the time he could see the light of a camp fire, the battle seemed almost over. Dimly in the fog he could see half a dozen figures duelling, and more slumped on the ground or crawling away from the fighting. He stopped, leaning on a tree trunk to take the weight off his foot, and squinted into the mist. The figures slowly resolved themselves. Nearest to him, Porthos was sweeping his blade horizontally, keeping his opponent at bay and chuckling a low, guttural laugh. On the far side of the fire, Aramis was holding off a burly soldier with crossed blades over his head, pushing him steadily back. Athos looked casual as he probed and niggled with rapid sword-strokes. d'Artagnan thought about joining them but the slope down the last few feet to the campsite looked steep and he had just decided to stay out of trouble, when he caught movement from the trees to his right, near where Athos was fighting. One of those already downed had risen to his knees behind Athos, pulled a pistol and was levelling it at Athos in front of d'Artagnan's horrified gaze.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan screamed a warning, and without conscious thought, sent a dagger whistling through the air. He watched it turning lazy circles as it winged, in apparent slow motion, towards the fallen Spaniard. He saw Athos' head turn towards his shout, away from the danger, and d'Artagnan knew an instant of utter desolation as he knew he was too late. Then the shot reverberated around the clearing, Athos dropped to one knee and d'Artagnan started forwards, breath sobbing out of his constricted throat, fearing the worst.

But Athos continued his movement with a forwards thrust of his sword that impaled his opponent, then pushed himself to his feet in one fluid motion. Unbelieving, d'Artagnan scanned the man who had fired, and saw his body had fallen sideways to the ground – and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his neck. As Athos turned to look up the slope from whence the warning shout had come, d'Artagnan found his feet unable to keep up with his headlong motion towards his mentor, and he fell, cursing, scrabbling to try and halt his undignified and precipitous descent.

Athos blinked as d'Artagnan rolled to a stop almost at his feet and let out a small groan. "d'Artagnan?" he asked, disbelieving his eyes, then turned to cast an accusing glare in Porthos' direction even as he took two quick steps towards the young Musketeer, sheathing his sword in one fluid movement.

Porthos clenched his fists together and drove them like a club into the face of his opponent, sending the man hurtling backwards to crumple, insensate, against a tree trunk. "Yeah, sorry about that," he gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. "Didn't have time to tell you I found the pup. Oh, and 'e's got the women tucked away safe nearby."

"What?!" Aramis glanced around involuntarily, then had to duck as his opponent took advantage of his lapse in concentration to direct a fierce blow at his head. Quickly refocusing, Aramis redoubled his efforts, desperate to finish his man off quickly. A feint to the left, a swift step to the right, and a lightening thrust to the stomach did the job. Hauling his sword out of the fallen man's body Aramis swung around and saw, in amazement, the very welcome sight of Athos picking their Gascon up off the forest floor and setting him on his feet. "d'Artagnan!" he yelled happily, striding quickly over, arms outstretched just as Porthos had done earlier.

"Wait!" Porthos called out a warning, but Athos had worked it out already, and moved to block Aramis' enthusiastic greeting.

"Give him space," he instructed softly. "He's injured."

Aramis skidded to a halt, quickly searching the Gascon with his eyes and seeing for himself the ravages wreaked on the lad's body since he'd last seen him. "d'Artagnan," he breathed, reaching out instinctively to d'Artagnan's bloodied shirt.

"I'm all right." d'Artagnan's voice sound husky, and Aramis let out a small snort of disbelief. "At least," d'Artagnan amended, "nothing's life threatening." He flicked a firm gaze at Athos, who let a twitch of his lips betray the smile of relief that was lurking there. d'Artagnan pushed himself away from the pair of Musketeers who were staring at him as if they were having trouble believing he was there, and stumbled towards the nearby body to retrieve his dagger. "Help me?" he rasped, bending with difficulty to turn the man over so he could see his face.

"What are we looking for?" enquired Athos, his calm voice completely at odds with the surge of emotions he was feeling inside. He moved to join d'Artagnan as the young Musketeer moved to check another body. Porthos joined them, helping to roll each body over so d'Artagnan didn't have to bend too much.

"Sanchez," said d'Artagnan tersely. At the lack of response he straightened and looked at their uncomprehending expressions. "He's their leader."

Aramis started to protest. d'Artagnan clearly needed to rest, not worry about one more Spaniard on the loose, and after nearly four days of non-stop worry, all Aramis wanted to do was get the lad to a warm bed and look after him. Well, maybe not all: he _was_ quite keen to see the Queen too, and see for himself that she was indeed safe. But Athos stopped his protest with a raised hand. He had an idea why d'Artagnan might be obsessively searching for this man. "What does he look like?"

"Um ... Tréville's age and build, but longer hair; untidy moustache; earring in his left ear – hoop. Right ear-lobe is torn, no earring." d'Artagnan was talking stiffly, as if it hurt to speak, or he'd forgotten how to talk. Maybe a bit of both, mused Aramis, itching to check the lad over. But d'Artagnan was moving too fast in his frantic search of the clearing. Athos was following him, despatching anyone who still breathed with ruthless detachment. Bodies checked, d'Artagnan turned to face them, his face looking bleak. And very battered, Aramis saw as a little moonlight broke through the mist for a moment.

"Seven killed," d'Artagnan summed up, "but none of them is Sanchez."

Porthos added it up. "You said you'd killed three before I found you?" he checked.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, including the one you saw."

"And I'd killed one at the horses, plus seven here, so one missing still. Unless you killed any guards?" he questioned Athos, who was frowning.

"We found another group of horses – that's why we jumped the gun with the attack, sorry Porthos. We'd created a bit too much noise taking out the four who'd ridden them in. Plus one guard on our way around. So that should be all sixteen, unless anyone was on foot, or we've missed some horses." He looked enquiringly at d'Artagnan. "Are you sure this Sanchez is in the forest?"

d'Artagnan sighed, his shoulders dropping in frustration. "No. No, I'm not." He looked up again, the bleakness dropping from his eyes as a familiar determined look settled onto his features. "Right, we need to retrieve the women. How far is the Paris road from here?"

Athos blinked at the decisive tone of the young Musketeer's enquiry. "Not far. Where are the women?"

d'Artagnan squinted around as he tried to orient himself. "Maybe… twenty minutes from here, near the path leading in from the valley. There's a manor house there – " He stopped, as he saw the others nodding. "You found it?"

Porthos nodded, looking bleak as he remembered the moment he thought he'd also found d'Artagnan's body amongst the fallen timbers of the barn.

Beside him, Athos stirred, remembering something else. "Found this too." He pulled d'Artagnan's _main gauche_ from his belt and held it out, catching a flicker of emotion, quickly suppressed, on the Gascon's features.

d'Artagnan reached to take the blade, oblivious to the three pairs of eyes fastened on the bloodied rags that wrapped his hand. "Can't believe..." His voice trembled for a moment, then he lifted his chin doggedly and Athos recognised the mask of control d'Artagnan dragged into place. He'd seen it enough in his own mirror.

d'Artagnan flicked the Spanish dagger into the turf and sheathed his _main gauche_ with fluid relief. "Thank you." There was a world of meaning in the simple phrase, but he'd already moved on briskly. "I'll go and fetch the women, bring them back here – I'm guessing the road is that way?" he gestured with his chin, too tired to lift a hand.

Aramis read his exhaustion expertly. "No _mon ami_ , you rest here. I'll go."

d'Artagnan snorted. "You won't find them. I'm not sure I'll be able to either, so there's no point anyone else looking," he explained. "But we should get moving; if Sanchez is still around, there may be others with him."

"We have horses, near the road…" started Athos.

"Horses?" d'Artagnan interrupted, his eyes lighting up. "That's…" he stopped, swallowed, then carried on sounding a little overwhelmed. "That's good news. I'm a bit fed up with walking."

They all looked down at his feet, with his bruised and bloody toes protruding from the bandages wrapping them. Aramis again twitched involuntarily, itching to get his hands on d'Artagnan to start dressing his wounds. d'Artagnan saw and snapped at him. "Not here! There's no time!" He looked at Athos. "Can you bring them around, down the valley to meet us at the edge of the forest – that would be quickest."

Athos paused, then nodded slowly, seeing the sense in the plan, but slightly surprised that it had been couched more as an order than a suggestion. "I'll meet you there in half an hour." He turned but stopped at d'Artagnan's low "Wait!" Athos crooked an eyebrow.

"How many horses do you have?"

"Six."

"Then take Porthos with you. You can't manage six on your own." d'Artagnan's voice was matter of fact but brooked no argument.

Athos paused, considering him. He could do it at a pinch, but it could be tricky.

"Especially if you meet any trouble," added d'Artagnan firmly.

Athos let loose a disbelieving snort. The lad was out-thinking the strategist. He was right, dammit; it would be better to stay in pairs. He wasn't happy about the idea of just two men – one of them debilitated by injuries – being responsible for the safety of the Queen, even for a short time, but if he did come across more invaders whilst bringing the horses around, he might struggle on his own, and without the horses the others would be stranded. He also had a worry about sending Aramis to help retrieve the Queen – would he be able to maintain his distance, after the agony of the last few days, not knowing if she was alive or dead? But he was their medic and it made sense to send him with d'Artagnan. Sighing, and at the same time allowing himself a moment of pride at d'Artagnan's reasoning, he agreed. "You two - be careful. Porthos, with me."

With a look of reluctance, Porthos moved past d'Artagnan, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently as he passed. "See you in a moment," he said, gruffly, as he headed off after Athos.

Watching them go, d'Artagnan rolled his shoulders cautiously then looked at Aramis. "This way," he said, heading slowly back up the slope. "And stop trying to catalogue my injuries while we walk!"

* * *

 _So they have been reunited, however briefly - they still have to retrieve the women before they can relax properly but that will come very soon. Honest._


	25. Chapter 25: Last gasp

_Updating early on this rainy Sunday afternoon. Forgive the slightly shorter chapter but you'll see why; tomorrow's will be longer to make up for it. Please keep telling me what you like and want to see happen - your comments have really helped me to shape the story!_

 **Chapter 25: Last Gasp**

They walked rapidly, following a succession of small pathways. d'Artagnan seemed sure of his route, barely hesitating at each junction, but several times he stopped suddenly and cocked his head on one side. The first time Aramis looked at him then asked if he was lost. d'Artagnan shook his head slowly, still looking around, then moved off, apparently satisfied. But a few feet further on he stopped again and held a hand up. "Did you hear anything?" he mouthed at Aramis. Pursing his lips, and checking around him, Aramis shook his head slowly. "What is it?"

d'Artagnan hesitated, then shrugged and moved off again. "Not sure. I thought I could hear something – but I'm probably imagining it."

Aramis kept a careful eye out, and trod silently in d'Artagnan's wake, his own anxiety levels rising, but he couldn't detect anything out of place. After ten minutes or so, d'Artagnan led him into a small clearing, and paused. Again he checked carefully around and saw that Aramis was doing the same, but again neither of them found anything worrying. Releasing a breath, d'Artagnan indicated a large heap of brambles. "They're under there… or possibly the next one," he added, looking further into the clearing, his brow creasing as he tried to remember exactly where the women were waiting. He peered at an animal pathway and stopped. "Yes, I think it's this one," he whispered. Kneeling awkwardly, he parted the brambles cautiously, then began to force his upper body into the small space. Aramis waited impatiently as d'Artagnan hissed into the brambles; there was a pause then the briar patch shook as he crawled back out, wincing as the thorns pulled at his skin and hair. "Wrong one," he admitted with a rueful grin, accepting a helping hand from Aramis as he stood up stiffly.

"You alright?" Aramis checked, worried by the lad's obvious pain as he moved. d'Artagnan nodded, distractedly, then saw the anxiety in Aramis' eyes, and patted him awkwardly.

"I will be fine," he reassured. He didn't miss the frown on Aramis' tired face as he noticed the Gascon's use of the future tense, but at that moment he spotted another likely bramble patch and moved towards it.

Aramis followed then motioned to d'Artagnan to wait. Cupping his hands over his mouth he produced a soft but realistic owl hoot. There was a pause, then the briar patch rustled and he could hear whispering, followed by an "ow!" and a fierce shushing noise. Cracking a tired smile, d'Artagnan sank to his knees and disappeared head first into the brambles again. Waiting impatiently, Aramis could just make out a grumpy-sounding "it's about time!" from Constance, and grinned to himself. Whatever trials these three had been through over the last few days, nothing seemed to quash that woman's spirited nature. He only hoped the Queen would have held up so well.

After a lot of rustling, a head of fair hair started to emerge next to d'Artagnan's feet as he held the lowest branches up out of the way. Aramis found his heart was racing as he caught his first sight of Anne for nearly four days. With a hand that trembled slightly he reached out and took her arm to help her up. He could hardly believe she was here, real and warm to his touch. He pulled an errant bramble free of her hair and smiled stupidly at her as she rose, graceful as always, to her feet.

His heart lurched as he took in her exhausted face, complete with scratches, and black smudges under her eyes, her chaotic hair tumbling free of her bun – but eclipsing all of this was her warm smile which crinkled her eyes and sent fire to his belly. It was fortunate that d'Artagnan's head was still buried in the brambles or he might have queried Aramis' complete disregard for protocol as he caught both her hands in his and pulled her in close. He just managed to stop short of hugging her but simply drank in her face, her smell, her blue eyes fastened on his, her shy smile.

He reached out to push an unruly strand of hair from her face, seeing her eyes widen as he did, and he stopped – realising he was in danger of being over-familiar, hoping she felt the same sense of overwhelming relief, and wondering why she looked so startled, his emotions tumbling chaotically around his brain. He saw her mouth open, and he had a split second's realisation that there was something wrong as he felt air move behind him, but before he could react or begin to turn his head, a hammer-blow struck him behind the ear and the world turned a somersault as he tumbled bonelessly to the ground.

* * *

The first d'Artagnan knew of everything going pear-shaped was when someone grabbed him by the foot and yanked. Hard.

"Aramis!" he protested without thinking, but as he was dragged roughly out from the brambles he quickly realised Aramis would not man-handle him in this way. He could see Constance's startled face amongst the briars but there was no time to say anything as he scrabbled frantically for his knife. As his body was dragged clear of the brambles, he twisted onto his back and hurled his knife in one movement, without even having a chance to register who his attacker was. As if in slow motion he saw the knife twirling lazily towards his nemesis, Sanchez, who jerked his head to the side to evade the missile. But d'Artagnan was transfixed by the black eye of a pistol pointed at his head, and the puff of smoke from the breech, the sputter of ignition, and the red-hot spurt of flame that followed the musket ball from its barrel. As his body continued to roll, he _felt_ the ball thud into the ground barely an inch from his eyes before he even heard the sound of the shot.

Weaponless and vulnerable, he rolled immediately to hands and knees, his brain scrambling to catch up. He had a split second to take in the scene. Aramis was nothing but a dark shape on the far side of the clearing, with the Queen on her knees beside him but looking frantically over towards him. Then there was no more time as Sanchez dropped his spent pistol to the ground and drew his sword. Summoning every last ounce of his strength, d'Artagnan launched himself into a horizontal dive – past the startled Sanchez and towards Aramis.

Sanchez roared and swung his sword but the blade whistled harmlessly through the air, pulling Sanchez off balance slightly and giving d'Artagnan a precious extra second to reach his target: Aramis' sword, which had landed free of his belt as he fell. d'Artagnan reached a desperate hand for the hilt, closed his fingers and lurched to his feet all in one move. Sanchez was right behind him in two strides but d'Artagnan scrabbled backwards, drawing the mercenary away from where his brother had fallen and where the Queen crouched, one hand cradling Aramis' cheek, her mouth open in horror.

As Sanchez bore down on him, d'Artagnan just managed to get Aramis' sword up in time to block Sanchez' strike. The swords clashed and grated as Sanchez' face twisted in a snarl, bring all his weight and strength to bear on d'Artagnan's defensive sword. Slowly he pushed d'Artagnan backwards, step by fumbling step.

D'Artagnan felt sweat pouring down his face as he tried to keep his feet, arms already trembling from the strain of his double-handed hold. He knew he wouldn't last long and needed to break the impasse. He tried to twist Aramis' blade with the rapid flick that normally worked for him, but Sanchez read his move and countered with a flick of his own. To his utter horror, d'Artagnan's weakened grasp was no match for the Spaniard and he felt the blade being wrenched from his hands and soaring, end over end, through the air to land far into the brambles.

There was a moment of stillness as d'Artagnan brought his gaze back to Sanchez', glaring defiantly at the triumphant smile twisting the Spaniard's lips. He crouched, arms raised ready to defend against the next blow, knowing it would likely be his last move but determined not to yield. Sanchez chuckled, hefting his blade from hand to hand, watching as the Musketeer weaved in front of him, hands trembling from weakness or fear – he didn't care which. The pesky man was as good as dead: but he still needed to find the Queen.

"Tell me where she is, and the other one lives," he growled, flicking his blade towards d'Artagnan's face. The musketeer whipped his head out of the way and took two unsteady steps to the side while Sanchez tracked him with his sword.

"The Queen? I'm sure she's back in Paris by now," d'Artagnan taunted, trying to control his breathing. Sanchez snarled and took another swipe, which d'Artagnan dodged less easily this time, having to take another wobbly step sideways to regain his balance.

"You arrogant little bastard," Sanchez spat at d'Artagnan. His sword flashed through the air again and this time d'Artagnan was not quick enough to dodge.

"d'Artagnan!" The Queen looked on in horror as Sanchez' blade caught him square on his forehead, whipping his head back with the force of the blow. His body followed as he plummeted to the ground, landed heavily on his back and lay motionless.

Sanchez chuckled in satisfaction before remembering that he still didn't know where the Queen was. Swearing to himself he stood over the Gascon's body and bent down, sword pointing at his throat. "The Queen," he growled, prodding the tip of his blade into the hollow of d'Artagnan's neck, frowning at the blood pouring from the gash on his forehead and obscuring his face.

Suddenly the Gascon's eyes opened, startlingly white in the bloodied mask of his face. "You mean her?" he whispered, hoarsely. He raised a trembling hand and Sanchez followed his pointing finger towards the brambles to the right of where the other musketeer had fallen. His upper body turned to follow his gaze – giving Constance the perfect target as she hurled her small knife, with all her force, towards the man threatening her fallen musketeer.

There was a solid "thunk" and Sanchez yelped, looking down in disbelief at the hilt now protruding from his stomach. For a moment the tableau in the clearing was still as everyone held their breath. Then a low rumble began in Sanchez' chest. He reached down with his left hand and tugged at the slender dagger, yanking it from his flesh with an angry curse. His head lifted slowly and his gaze fell on Constance who was frozen in place, crouched in front of the brambles, eyes wide as she realised her tiny blade had not dealt the killing blow she had aimed for. Her eyes slid sideways to where d'Artagnan lay, still at the point of Sanchez' sword, his chest heaving from exertion. At the same time she saw realisation dawn on Sanchez' face, as he noticed Constance's blue robe, and his sword wavered as he looked at the woman he believed to be the Queen.

That moment of distraction gave d'Artagnan the space he needed. As if in a trance, Constance saw d'Artagnan whip his hands up to grasp the blade now wavering somewhere near his shoulder. Too late, Sanchez felt himself tugged off balance as the Musketeer yanked his sword sharply, trying to deflect it away from his body. Sanchez roared his displeasure and turned away from Constance to grapple with the insolent youth who was determined not to yield. Tightening his hold he forced his sword back towards d'Artagnan's throat, a slow smile spreading across his swarthy face as he watched the blood dripping from the Gascon's hands as his desperate fingers curled around the blade, trying to keep it away from him.

As the blade reached his skin, d'Artagnan tipped his chin away and his eyes met Constance's agonised gaze as she scrambled to her feet, hands outstretched in a futile attempt to reach him. Knowing it would only be seconds before Sanchez overpowered him for the last time, he tried desperately to convey his love for her even as he called to her to "Run, Constance, Anne - run!" - not caring what name he used, only wanting them to be safe and for his blood not to be shed in vain.

Then a shot rang out across the clearing.

* * *

 _Nothing's ever easy with these guys, is it? *runs for cover*_


	26. Chapter 26: Resolution

_Sorry about the cliffhanger yesterday - it just sort of happened...! Hopefully this longer chapter will make up for it._

 **Chapter 26: Resolution**

Porthos jogged through the trees after Athos. Both men were tense, watching and listening all around them as they moved as silently as possible. They had no idea if any Spaniards were still roaming the French countryside, but they couldn't afford to relax their guard yet.

At last the fog seemed to lift a little and Porthos realised they had reached the edge of the forest. Emerging cautiously onto the Paris road, they paused to get their bearings. Athos looked at Porthos who shrugged and pointed to the left. "Probably that way," he said quietly. Athos frowned at his lack of certainty, but since he had no more idea himself he decided to trust Porthos' sense of direction and moved off in the direction he'd indicated.

Five minutes later Porthos was beginning to worry, and the set of Athos' shoulders told him the Lieutenant was equally concerned. Just as Porthos was about to suggest turning to try the other direction, Athos held up a hand, then let out a sigh of relief and stepped off the road into the trees to their right. Porthos followed, grinning smugly, as he too picked up the soft stamp of a foot, and the faint jangling sound of a bit being chewed as a horse grazed.

They mounted swiftly, each gathering the reins of two spare mounts and leading them in their left hands – leaving their sword hands free - as they exited the woods onto the track again. Athos immediately urged Roger into a fast canter, and Porthos followed, feeling the same sense of urgency. The fog swelled around the dark, silent trees and their hoof beats seemed muffled as the whole forest appeared to hold its breath.

Porthos shook himself at his fanciful thoughts. He hated fog – always had. In the Court it had spelled danger, as rival gangs and guards could hide in its skirts, and even the streetwise Court kids could lose their bearings as they hunted the streets of Paris for food. The dense air muffled the sounds and trapped smells in the narrow winding streets, and it always made him feel claustrophobic. Now, knowing they were close to getting their friends safely away after nearly four days of searching, but also knowing that there were possibly more mercenaries hunting them all, he felt nervous and twitchy, imagining he could hear hoof beats following him and distant sounds of fighting... Hang on, he really _could_ hear hooves...

"Athos, we got company!" he yelled, yanking Flip to a skidding halt, dropping the reins of those he was leading, and whipping the gelding around to face the track behind him. He heard a curse from Athos, then there was no time to think, only to react, as four dark horses broke out of the fog and thundered towards him. He fired a quick shot which he thought clipped the central rider, but the man didn't falter. Porthos drew his sword and spurred Flip to meet the intruders head on, whirling his sword over Flip's head and getting one slashing hit to the man on his right, before clashing with the rider on his left with a thunderous roar.

He sensed, rather than saw, Athos engaging the right-hand rider, and automatically shifted Flip over so they were fighting side by side but facing opposite directions, so their sword work didn't hamper each other and each protected the other's left side. They settled into a familiar rhythm – slash, block, twist, push forwards, drive the other back. Athos quickly gained the upper hand and with a rapid one-two, he got under the other's guard and sliced him across the chest then stomach, finishing with a thrust that sent his opponent, lifeless, to the ground. Athos instantly spurred Roger around the back of Porthos to come up next to the fourth rider who had been holding back, waiting his chance to get close to the fray. He startled as Athos bore down on him, and his horse skittered sideways. Athos saw the flicker of desperation on the man's face as he tried to turn his horse to face the Musketeer, but he was too slow, and with a rapid move Athos slipped his sword into the man's ribs.

Quickly he wheeled Roger again as he heard a shout of warning from Porthos. Twisting in the saddle as Roger whirled around, he barely had time to get his sword up in front of him as Porthos' second assailant switched targets and unleashed a hefty blow in Athos' direction. Their swords quivered with the force of the clash, and Athos hauled Roger back on his haunches to relieve the pressure. Instantly the other man pressed forward and traded blows with Athos. In the background he saw Porthos' man falter then topple slowly off his horse, but that moment's inattention let his own opponent under his guard and Athos felt metal bite into his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Athos brought his sword swiftly back down, knocking the rider's strike away and twisting the blades, at the same time urging Roger into a shoulder-charge which knocked the other horse off-balance. As the horse dipped its shoulder Athos flicked his blade upwards, the rider was jerked forwards in his saddle and even before his sword was ripped from his grasp, Athos' blade thrust had stilled the rider's heart.

Automatically settling Roger with a pat to his sweating neck, Athos's gaze swept their surroundings to check for further danger. His thumping heart slowed as he calmed his breathing, aware of the adrenaline still surging through his limbs and making his muscles quiver with liquid fire. It was always this way in the aftermath of battle, especially one like this, unanticipated for all their vigilance. As soon as the first blow was struck or shot fired, everything irrelevant to survival vanished, leaving only the sound of his heart and breathing, the sounds of steel, gasps of exertion, the flash of eyes, the sharp smell of sweat and fear. Athos himself always felt icy calm, his muscles responding seemingly unbidden, his brain detached, observing every detail as if everything happened in slow motion. As he sheathed his sword it felt as if the rest of the world suddenly rushed back into the void of the fight circle, and he winced at the intrusion before he'd reined in his heightened sensitivity back to normal levels.

He was aware of Flip moving alongside Roger, their muzzles touching for a second as if to reassure themselves that they, like their human counterparts, were unharmed. Then Porthos reached out to brush his fingers to the rent in his doublet, and the pain finally made itself felt. Setting his jaw firmly, Athos looked down, decided there was not enough blood to merit comment, and raised his chin to meet Porthos' worried gaze.

"Just a slice," he commented casually. "Which way did the horses go? We need to round them up and get the others quickly, before..." Then his head jerked up as his ears caught the faint sound of a pistol shot, deep in the woods. Their eyes locked for a second, both knowing instantly, from the direction, that the others were in danger. "Get the horses, meet me where we arranged!" snapped Athos, hurling himself off Roger in one fluid movement and setting off at a run without waiting for acknowledgement from Porthos.

He raced along narrow pathways, hurdling fallen trunks and ploughing through bramble patches, focussed only on remembering the direction of the shot and listening frantically for any further clues to the others' whereabouts. He had a rough idea of where to find them but the pathways twisted and the fog deadened all noise and foxed his sense of direction until he was no longer sure whether he was heading into the forest or back out. When the trees thinned momentarily he felt a flash of fear that he'd got turned around and would re-emerge on the Paris track, but two strides later he found himself on a pathway, wide but still surrounded by forest. Was this the path d'Artagnan had followed back to the women?

He forced himself to pause, trying to pant quietly so he could listen, aware suddenly of the pain in his shoulder again. But in the next moment that was forgotten as he heard something off to his right. Without stopping to identify the sound, he was off again, and thirty frantic paces further on his sharp eyes suddenly picked out shapes in the tendrils of mist, heard rough breathing, a rasp of steel, a woman's cry. As Athos leapt over a patch of tangled brambles he saw everything in a flash: the Queen facing away from him, standing over a fallen body – Aramis?; a dark figure looming over someone else on the ground – d'Artagnan; seeing with a lurch of pure fear the sword held to his neck, Constance struggling out from brambles beyond, eyes wide in fear. In mid-air, Athos brought up the pistol he didn't remember drawing and aimed it at the stranger, knowing even as he did that he would be too late, he could see the blade already cutting into his protégé's skin as the youngster yelled to the women to run, and a shot rang out...

Two shots.

So close that they sounded as one.

Landing awkwardly Athos stumbled into the centre of the tableaux, eyes only on d'Artagnan as he disappeared under a heap of lifeless Spaniard. Athos skidded to a halt beside the tangle of limbs, dropping his pistol and grabbing the uppermost body by the shoulder, shoving it roughly to one side, his eyes instantly scanning d'Artagnan's bloodied face even as his fingers checked the fallen Spaniard's throat automatically for a pulse. None. He switched his touch to d'Artagnan, seeing with infinite relief the flutter of eyelids as his hand cupped the young Musketeer's face.

Belatedly remembering his duty he called over his shoulder to the Queen. "Your Majesty," (the formality sounding ridiculous in this clearing with its aftermath of desperation and death), "are you hurt?"

At the same moment Constance arrived on her knees beside d'Artagnan, desperately searching Athos' face even as she reached for d'Artagnan's hand, clasping it with her own trembling fingers. "Is he...?" she whispered.

"He's alive," Athos reassured her with a calmness he didn't feel. He'd seen the youngster struggling, seconds before – why was he now lying as if unconscious?

"He's not breathing!" Constance blurted out what Athos had not consciously realised. _Merde_! He grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulders and hauled him upright, not knowing why or what he intended, but as the lad's limp body folded onto his own shoulder he heard a hoarse in-drawn gasping breath surge through d'Artagnan's lean frame. Athos mirrored the sound as he let loose his own pent-up breath. Constance reached out to d'Artagnan in a fluttering touch, her eyes searching Athos' face in bewilderment.

Understanding dawned. "I think he was winded. When the Spaniard fell on him... he will be all right now," he reassured her with more confidence than he felt.

Suddenly realising he had not heard a response from the Queen, he handed d'Artagnan's shuddering frame into Constance's care for a moment and pushed himself wearily to his feet, to find the Queen standing directly behind him, her distressed gaze settling as she took in his reassuring presence.

"Your Majesty," he began again. She interrupted him, sounding calmer than he felt. "I am well, Athos, but Aramis is unconscious."

 _Sacrebleu_! He hadn't forgotten seeing Aramis' still body, quite, but everything had happened so fast and he hardly knew where to start. Berating himself, even though less than a minute had passed since he'd come across the scene, he nodded his thanks to the Queen and went to move past her, then paused, and reached out to remove the pistol – Aramis', he saw – from her hand. She looked down as he gently unclenched her whitened fingers from the handle, then looked up and caught his eyes with hers. "Did I...?" she asked, quietly.

He looked back at the body of the Spaniard where he'd rolled him off d'Artagnan. Clear on his chest was a gaping exit wound from a shot. He looked back at the Queen. The shot could have been his, though he doubted it; he'd been sideways on to the Spaniard. He'd also been mid air and had taken the shot before he'd had time to aim properly, knowing if he didn't fire _right then_ he would be too late anyway. What to tell her? Her calm blue gaze slid back towards the body and he decided she deserved only the truth. "I fired too, but I thought I had missed. There is no way of being sure, but I think the shot was most likely yours."

She blinked, assimilating his answer, then nodded once without comment before turning to follow him towards Aramis. Athos thought fleetingly that there would be an awful lot to explain to the King - or perhaps some things to _avoid_ explaining to the King - when they returned to Paris. Then he forgot about everything else but Aramis, his oldest brother, who lay face down in a crumpled heap where he had fallen. Athos immediately spotted the blood matting his hair on the back of his head, and the dropped branch nearby, dark with matching spots of blood. Quickly checking for a pulse, and finding with overwhelming relief that there was a slow but steady thrum under his fingers, he looked up at the Queen.

"What happened?" he asked, even though he already had a pretty good idea. He knew her calm was only a veneer; he had picked up the tremor in her voice and suspected she was close to her limits. Answering questions – reporting, in essence – might help to settle her. Quickly he began checking Aramis for other injuries before starting to tap him lightly on the face and rub his sternum in an effort to rouse the unconscious man.

She smiled slightly, as if aware of Athos' intention to occupy her, but obliged him with a quick account: of d'Artagnan helping her out of the brambles which had hidden them, then the sudden flurry of movement as Aramis had helped her step away to give Constance room to emerge; the awful thud as Aramis was hit; being pushed aside by the mercenary who had then yanked d'Artagnan away from the brambles and attacked him to find out where the Queen was.

Seeing Athos' confusion at this comment, she backtracked to point out their change of clothes which had saved her life the night before when they'd been captured. Athos' eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline but he didn't interrupt her, for which she was grateful. She was suddenly feeling weak from exhaustion as the adrenaline drained out of her.

Athos caught her elbow lightly as she wavered. "I've got the picture," he told her quietly. "Save the rest for later." He looked around, saw Constance was tying off a strip of blue cloth around d'Artagnan's head, and hoped this meant he had recovered enough to move. With Porthos out of reach, he didn't fancy staying here any longer.

A moan from Aramis caught his attention. The marksman was vaguely moving his hands and legs, as if trying to push himself upright. "Steady, Aramis. All is well," he told his friend softly, knowing he was barely conscious still.

The uncoordinated movements slowed, then Aramis carefully lifted his head and his bleary eyes found Athos'. " _Madre de Dios_!" he muttered under his breath.

Athos' eyes creased in sympathy, knowing Aramis would be feeling disjointed, nauseous and would have the world's worst headache right now. He looked around. "Do you have any water?" he asked of the Queen, in hope rather than expectation.

"I'll get it!" called Constance, disappearing under the brambles even as she spoke. There was a long moment in which nothing happened other than a lot of bramble shoots rusting and waving, and a fair bit of what sounded like fierce swearing, then she emerged again, rump first, thorns dragging at her hair but triumphantly clutching a water skin in one fist and a bundle of leather and dark material in the other.

Athos strode over to help her up, seeing how fierce the brambles were. She looked red-face and he realised for the first time just how many scratches she had on her dishevelled face. "Bloody things, ought to burn the lot of them," she muttered almost to herself as she held the water skin out to him. "That's what stopped me helping when that bloody man turned up. D'Artagnan just disappeared in front of my eyes and I got stuck on these finangling (only she didn't use that word but one far worse, which had Athos wincing and casting an apprehensive glance at the Queen) bramble thorns, completely ripped my dress, well, the Queen's dress, not that you'll be wanting it back any time soon..." she ground to a halt, realising both the Queen and Athos were smiling at her. "What?" she snapped, shaking out the cloth she'd rescued from the bramble patch. Athos saw it was a cloak, and moved to help her with it. "I can do it!" she hissed, snatching it away from his fingers, then stopped, puffed out a breath and burst into tears.

Athos hesitated a second, bemused by her rapid change of mood, then decided he couldn't ignore her obvious distress and cautiously stepped forward with his arms held out. When she didn't slap him, he tentatively wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders and drew her in for an awkward hug, holding her close for a moment then patting her on the back a few times to signal the end of the moment. After much longer later than he would have preferred, she pulled herself together and drew a shaky hand across her eyes, heaved another sigh and smiled her thanks. "Sorry," she muttered. "It's been... a bit of a night."

He rewarded her courage with a smile, looking around the tiny clearing at the evidence of the last half hour of that night, and snorted out a laugh at her obvious understatement. "Come, we should get moving – if you are...?"

"I'm fine now. Thank you," she added belatedly, then turned to d'Artagnan who was watching her anxiously but making no effort to rise from where she had propped him up against a tree trunk whilst he got his breath back.

"You good?" asked Athos, reaching a hand out to him.

d'Artagnan nodded, as he had expected (the lad would be dead before he admitted he was not fine), and took Athos' proffered hand. Athos' breath snagged as he felt the sticky coating of that hand, and as soon as he'd hauled d'Artagnan to his feet he twisted the hand over to inspect it, seeing a glimpse of deep cuts through blood-soaked bandaging before d'Artagnan realised what he was doing and snatched his hand away. "It's fine," he muttered, predictably.

Athos regarded him sternly but it was lost on the lad as he turned to take his jacket from Constance and drape it around her shoulders, then take the cloak and limp unsteadily over towards the Queen. On the way his steps faltered as he passed the body of the Spaniard. For a long moment he stood looking down, his face impassive but for a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then without comment he moved on.

Athos remembered the water skin in his hands and hastened over to Aramis, helping him to sit up and take a couple of sips of water whilst d'Artagnan wrapped the cloak around the Queen's shoulders. Opening his mouth to protest at the complete inappropriateness of wrapping the Queen of France in a filthy cloak, Athos was distracted by Aramis rolling urgently to one side to throw up discretely at the base of a tree, and by the time he'd finished supporting his friend and helped him to another sip of water to cleanse his mouth afterwards, he'd accepted the Queen's new look. The cloak was probably cleaner than the rest of her, he reflected.

A few minutes later they were heading back up the path, with Aramis' weight mostly draped over Athos' shoulders, his feet moving mechanically but fairly uselessly as he tried to balance himself. The Queen walked behind carrying the water skin and occasionally straightening Aramis with a hand on his back when he wobbled dangerously. Constance brought up the rear, her good arm wrapped around d'Artagnan's waist as he stumbled along, his head drooping with exhaustion and pain.

It took less than five minutes to reach the edge of the forest. When Athos noticed the trees thinning he paused, propped Aramis against a tree and indicated to them to wait there while he checked for danger before they all emerged from the trees. After two steps he hesitated, turned back and drew Aramis' pistol from his belt where he had thrust it after re-loading it. He handed it to the Queen with a question in his eyes. "You know how to use it, if need be," he commented, as she hesitated. He saw the flicker of amusement cross her face as she dipped her head in acknowledgement and accepted the pistol.

Treading cautiously he took one step away from the tree line, then snapped his head around to the right, instantly relaxing as he took in the welcome sight of Porthos waiting a few feet away on a fidgety Flip, clutching a fistful of reins as two horses on one side and three on the other all surged and tossed their heads impatiently.

"Bout time!" grumbled Porthos. Athos saw he somehow carried his pistol in his right hand, as well as the reins of both Roger and the Queen's flighty white mare. "What 'appened?"

"Sanchez found them – the leader d'Artagnan was looking for," said Athos turning back and beckoning towards where the rest of their group waited.

"S'everyone ok?" Porthos made as if to dismount in his anxiety, then looked at his hands as if he'd only just noticed how many reins he was clutching.

Athos quickly waved at him to stay mounted. "Mostly. Aramis is a bit concussed"– which was already evident as Aramis wobbled into view – "and d'Artagnan's a bit more battered, but still walking. Just," he added as Constance emerged, steering an equally wobbly d'Artagnan in front of her.

"Porthos, can you take Aramis?" Athos grabbed Aramis from the Queen and led him towards Flip. Porthos just looked at him, lifting his hands to remind Athos how encumbered he currently was, then cursed as the light movement on the reins set off Aramis' aptly-named mare, Fidget, into a series of mini-rears accompanied by impatient squeals.

"They're all a bit wired after the ambush," commented Porthos, grunting as he juggled reins and pistol, trying to settle them down.

Athos acknowledged the problem and changed course, steering a pliant Aramis to a tree and propping him against it. "Your Majesty, perhaps if we..."

"Of course." She understood immediately, handing back him Aramis' pistol and heading for her mare, getting herself mounted before Athos could catch up with her to help. Giving an appreciative nod he turned to Constance.

"Constance, can you take d'Artagnan with you?" he enquired. She nodded, then scowled at d'Artagnan's predicable reaction.

"I _am_ here, and perfectly capable of speaking for myself!" he said vehemently, heading for the nearest horse. Then stopping dead as he recognised it as his own beloved mare. "Nuit!" he breathed, reaching a trembling hand out to free her reins from Porthos' grasp. She turned her head towards him and whickered softly, clearly greeting him, and he leaned his head against her sweaty neck for a moment, inhaling her scent. "I didn't realise... when you said you had horses..."

Athos smiled, instantly forgetting the number of times he'd cursed his decision to bring all their horses with them when he'd left the Pheasant yesterday. The bond between d'Artagnan and his mare was incredibly strong and that was one of his reasons for deciding to lead the three spares with him back to join Aramis and Porthos, then tow them around the lanes as they continued their search. The led horses had no doubt slowed their progress down, but he was glad of them now, anxious to get away from this infernal forest as soon as possible – and the look on d'Artagnan's face as he greeted his mare made it all worthwhile.

However he knew there was now no chance of persuading d'Artagnan to ride with Constance. Sighing, he went over to boost d'Artagnan into his saddle, waited while he fumbled with the reins, then remembered the state of his hands. Turning, to see Constance already mounted on her own borrowed chestnut gelding, he asked tentatively if she could spare any more skirt.

She just looked at him, then down at her knees which were visible now she had mounted. Muttering to herself she ripped yet another strip off the hem, but she handed it over with soft eyes as she watched him rip the strip in two and wrap each segment gently around d'Artagnan's hands, which were slippery with blood. D'Artagnan seemed barely aware of what he was doing, which worried her, but then she saw him nod his thanks to Athos and she knew he was simply conserving his energy.

Lastly Athos prodded Aramis into motion and managed to heave him up in front of Porthos. Thinking it was a good thing they hadn't had to mount up in a hurry, and vowing not to let anyone dismount for _any_ reason until they were well away from the danger area, he hauled himself wearily into Roger's saddle and took the reins of Aramis' mare from Porthos so that the burly musketeer could concentrate on keeping Aramis upright. A good five minutes after emerging from the forest, their exhausted party finally moved off.


	27. Chapter 27: Sanctuary

Thank you all again, so much, for all your reviews. I am so happy to be sharing this story with you! Now - phew! No cliff hangers here; I hope this chapter works for you.

Chapter 27: Sanctuary

They rode through the ragged remnants of the night, most of them hardly aware of their surroundings or the dim light in the east as dawn approached. d'Artagnan rode with both feet out of the stirrups, presumably because his feet were too painful, but Athos feared that he would simply tip out of the saddle. After an hour of watching him slump lower and lower Athos lost patience and nudged Roger to move alongside Nuit, instructing d'Artagnan to shift forwards in the saddle. It was a measure of the lad's exhaustion that he didn't protest, or even question, but simply did as he was bidden. Athos swung his right leg over the front of his saddle, dropped Roger's reins (knowing he would stay in place, matching Nuit's stride) and poked his toe into d'Artagnan's right stirrup. With a hand on the lad's shoulder he swiftly transferred his weight to his right foot and swung his left over Nuit's flanks, settling easily into the saddle behind d'Artagnan. The whole manoeuvre took just seconds to complete, and Athos found himself thinking it would be a useful trick to teach the new recruits. He heard an appreciative whistle from Porthos who was riding behind, and tipped his hat in brief acknowledgement of the compliment.

Daylight came slowly, the sun having to work hard to break through the fog. By the time they reached La Loupe, the nearest decent-sized village to the north, Athos estimated they were three hours clear of the forest and that everyone was pretty much done in. d'Artagnan seemed to be asleep in front of him, the Queen's eyelids were drooping, and Aramis was white-faced and squinting in the scant daylight.

Athos made for the inn which he remembered from a previous mission, and called a halt in a copse just out of sight. He dropped the reins of Aramis' mare and whistled to Roger who had been following docilely without being led. Aramis should train his own mare to follow, he thought tetchily as he carefully peeled himself away from d'Artagnan's back. He put a hand on Roger's saddle and deftly transferred his weight in a sideways leap frog, landing lightly in the saddle in spite of his weariness. Allowing himself a quirk of the lips (another skill to teach the recruits), he gathered the reins and nodded to Porthos who had pulled up with the others, then rode down to the Duck and Whistle Inn to check it out before allowing the others to be seen.

It took him a couple of minutes of banging on the doors before an upstairs window opened and a grumpy innkeeper could be seen complaining at the racket. After that Porthos could hear nothing, but watched as the doors were opened and Athos talked with the man, before turning to wave Porthos to approach.

They dismounted wearily. Athos told Porthos quietly that the innkeeper had heard of the troubles the other side of the forest, but that there had been no reports of invading soldiers or harassment this side of the forest. Within moments of arriving, the innkeeper reappeared, shoving his sleepy-headed son in front of him to help with the horses, and taking the Queen by the elbow in a familiar gesture which caused Athos to wince, and the Queen to twinkle a delighted smile at him. He led her and Constance to the inner stairs where his wife, hair awry but a welcoming smile on her face, waited to show them upstairs.

Porthos followed after seeing the horses safely into the stables and giving the lad instructions to untack and rub them all down, then water and feed them. Looking slightly aghast at the amount of unexpected work this early in the morning, the lad brightened as Porthos tossed him a coin and clapped him on the shoulder in appreciation.

Inside the inn Porthos found the innkeeper stoking the bar room fire and setting kettles of water to heat. He gestured to the stairs and Porthos climbed them wearily, finding the others already settled in the two rooms on the left side of the landing.

Athos had dumped Aramis on the bed and was pouring water for him to drink, bucket already in place in case of further bouts of nausea. d'Artagnan was slumped at a small table in front of the fire which the innkeeper's wife had just finished coaxing into life.

Athos looked up as Porthos entered. "Could you check if the women have everything they need?" he asked.

The innkeeper's wife straightened up. "I'll see to 'em, you boys just settle down. Look like you've had a spot of bother, do you. I'll bring 'ot water an' towels up, then get you sommat to eat. Made a good soup last night, did I, happen that will suit you?" She moved to the door, not waiting for an answer before bustling next door to check on the women.

Porthos grinned. "Seems she's got everything in hand," he said, moving to pour water for him and d'Artagnan. Athos left Aramis propped up on pillows and holding a damp cloth across his eyes, and came to join the others at the table. "'How is he?" asked Porthos, nodding at Aramis.

"He'll live. Not sure about this one, though," Athos commented drily, looking at d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan raised his head wearily and took the cup Porthos offered him without comment, bringing it to his lips but wincing as he touched it to his puffy lip. Porthos and Athos exchanged looks.

"Where do we start?" asked Porthos, looking despairingly at d'Artagnan's face.

"Head wound needs stitching," grunted Aramis from the bed, without opening his eyes. "I'll do it if you get it cleaned up first."

"Ahh – I'm not sure you're ready for fine stitching just yet," Porthos chided him. He looked consideringly at Athos, who blanched and held his hands up in surrender.

"Not my thing, and definitely not the face," Athos said firmly.

"Looks like you got me then, whelp," said Porthos cheerfully, picking up Aramis' saddlebag from where he'd dumped it on the floor, and starting to rifle through looking for his needle pouch.

It was d'Artagnan's turn to look horrified now. "There isn't time to start messing around stitching wounds – we'd be here all day!"

Athos looked puzzled. "We have got all day," he corrected.

"No! We can't stay here; we have to get back to Paris. We're already overdue, well overdue – the Queen needs to get back!" d'Artagnan sounded desperate, and Athos had the feeling it wasn't just an excuse to avoid having his head wound stitched by Porthos who – with the best will in the world – invariably produced the worst, most ham-fisted needle-work in the regiment.

"Explain," said Athos, sitting down opposite d'Artagnan and glaring at Porthos who was about to protest, looking offended at d'Artagnan's lack of enthusiasm for his offer to stitch.

D'Artagnan recounted the conversation he'd had with the Queen whilst pinned down by the searchers on the moor. "She's frantic that the King will find out she invited her cousin to talk about arranging a treaty. He'll think she's plotting against him and she's not, she's just trying to help broker peace before it's too late. If he hears rumours about Spanish troops before she's back to put him straight, he's bound to draw the wrong conclusions," he explained.

Porthos snorted. "Or the right conclusion."

Athos gave him a look. "Not helping."

Porthos made a face but shut up.

d'Artagnan rubbed blood away from his left eye where the bandage was leaking, with fingers that visibly trembled, but he didn't take his intent gaze away from Athos. "We've got to get her back there _today_ , before Tréville starts sending search parties out and Rochefort whispers in the King's ear... she won't stand a chance if it starts getting twisted in his mind!"

"But as soon as he finds out about the letter – " began Porthos.

"He won't find out!" d'Artagnan almost shouted it, glaring at Porthos so fiercely that the burly Musketeer took a step back from the table, holding his hands up. d'Artagnan turned back to Athos, repeating more quietly: "He won't find out. The only people that know about the letter are us and the Spaniards, and there's no proof – "

"There is, if Hernán turns up with the letter," interrupted Porthos, taking another step backwards in case. d'Artagnan grimaced but kept his eyes on Athos.

"Hernán is long gone. He's got no men left..."

"We don't know that for sure." Athos spoke softly, shaking his head slightly. He'd given d'Artagnan a brief run-down of their search efforts during the last four days, and the encounter with Hernán, mainly as a way of keeping d'Artagnan awake on the ride away from the forest.

"Well... okay, maybe he has stayed, and brought more men than he said – but I don't think that's likely. His men were well trained but they weren't regular soldiers; they were used to working in small groups, like mercenaries, not soldiers." He caught sight of Porthos nodding off to his left, and relaxed very slightly. "And if he's here with a big army we would have heard more rumours. Paris would know about it by now and this area would be swarming with Musketeers, wouldn't it?"

Athos leaned back, folding his arms and nodding at d'Artagnan to continue.

"The Queen told me Hernán likes to be right, loves the limelight, but never owned up to his mistakes. She thinks, if it started to go wrong, he would head back to Spain and make sure he wasn't connected with any of it. If she's right, all we have to do is miss out the bit about the letter. As far as the King is concerned, the Queen was as surprised as we were to see Hernán stepping out of that carriage. Apart from the letter, we don't need to hide anything or concoct stories, we can tell him the truth. He'll believe it as long as he doesn't know about the letter."

Athos looked at Porthos, who shrugged. He was cool with the idea, if Athos was. Athos looked back at d'Artagnan, seeing the intensity in his eyes. "What if the letter comes to light?"

"It won't," said d'Artagnan, firmly.

"It might, and if it does – "

"If it does," a new voice interrupted, "then I will deal with it." The Queen stepped into the room, her calm gaze resting on each of them in turn. It was a measure of what they'd been through that it was several seconds before Athos remembered to stand or Porthos to dip his head in a bow. As d'Artagnan began to push himself to his feet, however, she pointed at him crossly and said "Don't you dare!" and to the others' surprise, he sank back into the chair. Athos pulled his chair out for her to seat herself , looking oddly at d'Artagnan who was oblivious.

The Queen seated herself and tapped d'Artagnan lightly on his shoulder. "How are you doing?" she asked, gently. He looked up, and tried to muster a smile for her. "I'm fine, thanks".

"He means he's fine, _Your Majesty_ ," amended Porthos, stepping forward hastily.

She smiled at him. "We had an agreement, the last few days. We didn't really have the energy for all that palaver, to be honest." Ignoring Porthos' shocked look, she carried on firmly. "As I was saying, if the letter comes to light, _I_ will deal with it – not you. You knew nothing about it and that remains true. The only thing you need to... forget... is that I ever told you about the letter." She looked at each of them intently, her gaze lingering on Aramis, who was propped up by pillows, a hand shielding his eyes from the light in the room, but clearly following the conversation intently. He was the first to give her a nod, and she smiled briefly before turning back to the others. "Well?"

"Sounds good to me," said Porthos, looking at Athos, who was watching d'Artagnan. The Gascon's face was coated in blood; his eyes were creased in pain, the lids swollen, bruises and welts marring his cheekbones and chin, but his gaze never wavered. Athos nodded, his eyes flicking between the Queen and his brothers, taking their measure, then nodded again. "Agreed. And we'll get you back to Paris by nightfall. I suspect it will take us around six or seven hours, at a steady pace. Aramis, we'll leave you here with d'Artagnan; neither of you will be fit to ride for several days – "

"No," interrupted d'Artagnan quietly. "Sorry, but we're coming. At least, I am, I can't speak for Aramis," he amended, looking apologetically over at the bed. "I need to be there." He carried on, oblivious to the sceptical look Porthos threw at Athos over d'Artagnan's head. "If the King doubts the Queen, or questions what happened, I need to back her up. You weren't there for most of it, it has to be me."

Athos hesitated, eyes searching d'Artagnan's battered face almost despairingly. Yet again, d'Artagnan was right, but only if he was fit to ride, and right now? He looked as if he couldn't even stand on his own. He sighed. "We'll see how you are after we've cleaned you up. I don't even know what injuries you're hiding."

"But that's my point; if we're riding to Paris today we need to get going soon. There's no time to mess around with wound care or stitching..."

"No, hold on d'Artagnan," interrupted the Queen. "Constance and I both need to wash and change, we all need to eat, and you most definitely cannot ride to Paris without being thoroughly checked. I won't allow it. Athos," she looked at him, almost beseechingly, "if we take two or three hours now, can we still get to Paris tonight – all of us?"

Athos considered. "If we keep a decent pace and don't stop too many times, then maybe. But it will be late, after dark, at the pace these two can travel." He chose to ignore the small snort from Aramis at this.

"Good." The Queen rose. "Hopefully our baths should be ready by now. I believe they've set one up downstairs for you to use. Perhaps you could join us for breakfast afterwards?" She was as gracious as if she were inviting them to take tea with her at the Palace, and Athos couldn't help but return her smile.

"Porthos, could you...?" Porthos straightened up from the bow he had made reflexively as she exited, in spite of the Queen's advice that they could dispense with the formalities. He nodded and followed her out, ready to keep guard outside the girls' room.

There was a small silence in the room, and then Athos sighed, and started to unwrap the bandage around d'Artagnan's head. "Aramis, does your offer to stitch still stand?"

Aramis levered himself off the bed with a stifled groan. Athos watched him as he stood up, carefully, and walked over to the table like a drunk man pretending to be sober, then crashed heavily into the chair vacated by the Queen. "Nothing I love more than a bit of stitching before breakfast," he said, his normal cheerfulness sounding a little forced. He picked up the leather pouch containing his needles, and squinted at it before picking a needle out at the second attempt.

Athos started to swab at the wound which was still oozing fresh blood. "I should start threading your needle now, Aramis," he told the medic, trying not to smile. "It might take you a moment."

Aramis huffed in mock outrage, but couldn't answer as his tongue was pushed into the corner of his mouth whilst he concentrated fiercely on lining up the thread with the eye of the needle.

"Right, d'Artagnan. While Aramis is sorting out that head laceration, how about you tell me what else I'm going to find when we get you out of those clothes?"

d'Artagnan took a breath, not sure where to start, then hissed it out as Aramis pinched the sides of the wound together and pushed the needle decisively through his skin for the first stitch. Taking pity on him, Athos poured him a glass of wine and wrapped his bandaged fingers around the cup. d'Artagnan smiled his thanks briefly, then winced and bit his lip again as the next stitch went in.

Athos realised d'Artagnan wouldn't be able to speak until after Aramis had finished, so he occupied himself trying to remove the bandaging from around d'Artagnan's feet. He ended up having to cut most of it off, and even then large chunks were left stuck to the soles of his feet and the top of his right foot where the bolt had gone through.

Just as Aramis finished the last stitch and sat back, Porthos stuck his head around the door. "Water's ready downstairs," he told them.

d'Artagnan took a gulp of wine. He wasn't looking forward to the next bit; not the stairs, or trying to peel his clothes off, and definitely not the bit where he had to reveal his battered body to his brothers. For a moment he wondered if he could get out of it – plead tiredness, or lack of time – but another part of him was desperate to sink into warm water and soap his hair, desperate to get rid of the muck and grime of the last few days, the smell of the fire and blood and his own stinking body. Immersing himself in the icy stream water yesterday had helped, a bit, but he still felt – unclean, and foul... He steeled himself to rise, looking up in surprise as Athos placed a gentle hand under his elbow, and nodded his thanks.

"Aramis, shut your eyes and rest for a bit. It's going to be a long day." Aramis fumbled his way back to the bed and sank down again with relief as the others headed out of the room.

The walk downstairs was every bit as painful as he had anticipated, but at least the common room was still empty at this early hour. Behind the bar a small room which housed the spare barrels now also hosted a steaming tin bath.

The innkeeper's wife bustled in with an armful of towels and clothing, a beaming smile on her face. "All the neighbours 'as chipped in," she informed them proudly. "Even got spare dresses for the ladies, I 'as." She plonked everything down on the chair and bustled out again. "Breakfast'll be ready in ten minutes," she called over her shoulder.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Best get on with it then." He eyed the tattered remains of d'Artagnan's shirt, then pulled out his main gauche. "May I?"

d'Artagnan nodded with a wry smile. He would never wear that shirt again, that much was obvious. Athos sliced carefully up the back and started to peel the filthy cloth off d'Artagnan's shoulders where it was stuck to his skin, but stopped immediately when the youngster gasped in pain.

"Sorry." Athos peered into d'Artagnan's face, seeing the fine sheen of sweat on the lad's face and the pallor of his skin. He pondered for a moment. "How about you just climb in as you are? The water will soak everything off."

d'Artagnan acquiesced, and held his breath as Athos supported him under his arms as he climbed clumsily into the bath. The water was every bit as delicious, and as painful, as he had expected, and he closed his eyes for a long moment.

When he opened them again it was to see Athos regarding him with naked worry in his eyes. "I'm okay," he grunted.

Athos looked unconvinced, but contented himself with swilling water over d'Artagnan's feet until the last bits of bandage could be peeled off. Then he helped d'Artagnan sit forward in the bath so he could gently tease the shreds of his shirt from his torso. When he'd finished, he stood for a moment just looking at the complete mess that was d'Artagnan's back: the deep, ragged hole in his shoulder, the heavy bruising, and the stitches in a sword wound in his arm. His front was no better with deep bruising and clear signs of a whipping which had left oozing welts all over his flesh. Athos closed his eyes for a moment, and clenched his jaw so tight he thought it would crack.

d'Artagnan seemed unaware of his reaction – for which Athos was thankful – but simply sat, head bowed, forearms resting on his knees, letting the warmth of the water soak into his bones.

Clearing his throat, Athos moved forward into d'Artagnan's sight and took one of his hands so he could gently unwrap the layers of bandage protecting his palms, apologising as the material stuck fast in several places. "S'okay," d'Artagnan reassured, dropping his other hand under the water to soak the bandages better.

Eventually Athos had freed what he could reach. He could only imagine what the young Musketeer had gone through, but he could see the evidence marked on every inch of the lad's flesh of just how much d'Artagnan had given to keep the Queen safe.

The way he'd handled himself in the forest told Athos just how far d'Artagnan had come in the last four days. His insistence on being at the Palace to back up the Queen's account to the King was testament to his growing maturity. Now Athos wanted d'Artagnan to feel he could hand over responsibility for the Queen, and accept the comfort his brothers could offer. But his body and mind had been pushed to its limits and beyond, and Athos could see that he was only coping with the pain and extreme exhaustion through iron control.

He was cautious of stepping inside d'Artagnan's defences without invitation. He could tell how important it was for d'Artagnan to see this through: to get the Queen safely back to Paris and make sure she was safe from any suspicions. But he was suffering, was physically and mentally battered, and Athos ached to help him. For the first time he properly understood the torture they all put Aramis through whenever they were injured, especially if they hid injuries from him. d'Artagnan had to stay strong, and couldn't afford to unravel; but with Aramis unable to help Athos found he needed - _needed_! - to take care of the young Musketeer.

After a moment's hesitation he decided to take a chance. He took a bar of soap, lathered it in a small cup of water, and tipped the soapy liquid over d'Artagnan's hair, then massaged it gently in, careful to avoid the dried blood that marked several tender spots.

The Gascon's eyes were shut and for a moment he just breathed, feeling the bliss of someone taking care of him.

Then his eyes flew open as he remembered just who that someone was. He jerked upright in the water looking like a startled rabbit and sought Athos' eyes with his own. "What are you doing? "

Athos' hands stilled for a second, then continued as he contemplated his answer. It was, after all, perfectly obvious to both of them what he was doing, but behind the question lay uncertainty, vulnerability, and, he supposed, the need to know why Athos was behaving uncharacteristically.

He'd quite like to know himself. His upbringing as a Comte had taught him that restraint was everything and emotions were messy and irrelevant. The exception to this had been his younger brother Thomas, and his wife Anne, with both of whom other aspects of his personality - his caring and passionate nature, and a wicked sense of humour – had found natural playmates. After losing both of them in such a twisted way he had sought refuge in the hard discipline of a soldier's life with relief. It had taken years for Aramis and Porthos to wear down his defences to the point where the occasional twist of his lip or sarcastic comment would betray (to the initiated) the ardour hiding beneath his calm exterior. It had taken d'Artagnan much less time to work it out and burrow into his personal space, offering uninhibited laughter, back slaps, and brotherly hugs galore. That was now fine with Athos, who could see the hard-won walls defending his inner self disappearing one by one under the Gascon's relentless good humour.

What was not fine - what was positively weird - was to find himself washing another man's hair. Which he had pretty much finished doing whilst contemplating his answer. He put an arm behind the Gascon's shoulders and indicated that d'Artagnan should lie back so he could rinse his hair. As d'Artagnan sighed, then complied, Athos caught the look of pain that flashed across the lad's battered face before he schooled his features back into stillness.

It tore at Athos' heart to see the lad suffering so much pain, yet trying – managing – to hold it within himself. He suspected d'Artagnan was determined not to be a burden and it worried him that the lad lacked confidence still. He no longer needed guidance; could be sent ahead to scope out a prison in Spain and effect the daring rescue of de Fois; make his own decisions and contribute equally to discussions of tactics. His ideas were often inspired – the plan to use Milady to reveal the Cardinal's plot to kill the Queen was mostly d'Artagnan's inspiration. d'Artagnan was now an equal member of their team - except, Athos suspected, in d'Artagnan's own mind.

What he still had to learn was that teamwork is about sharing weakness as much as strength.

It had taken Athos many years to learn this himself, and he'd needed Aramis and Porthos to hammer home the lesson: it's acceptable to show that you need others as much as they need you. d'Artagnan didn't always need to be the perfect Musketeer. Everyone had bad days, bad missions. What d'Artagnan didn't yet realise was that this would not change their opinion of him, would not destroy their trust. His father used to tell him 'what doesn't break you, makes you stronger' and although at the time Athos had thought this heartless, he had often thought of it since, and seen the truth of it.

However he didn't think he could explain all this to d'Artagnan right now. For one thing, the water was cooling and the lad was beginning to shiver; he needed to get out, get warm, dressed and fed, and they needed to be moving on. More importantly though, if he started rambling on (and he would ramble, he was sure of it, just as his own thoughts had been rambling for the last few minutes as his hands rinsed d'Artagnan's hair, sat him up, and helped him out) about bad missions d'Artagnan would undoubtedly assume criticism of how he'd handled himself. Which was the opposite of what Athos wanted to convey.

He reached behind him for a towel and wrapped it around the Gascon's waist, trying not to wince at the further evidence of bruising and grazes all down his flank and hip, and the burns blistering on his shins that were revealed now they'd eased him out of his leathers. As he draped another towel around his shoulders he finally broke the silence.

"You asked what I was doing." He caught d'Artagnan's eye. "I can't take your pain. But I can ..." he hesitated, then continued: "I can take care of my brother."

There was a world of pain in d'Artagnan's eyes, and something else too, so he stopped trying to say the right thing and simply wrapped his arms carefully around d'Artagnan's shoulders.

For a moment in time, Athos stood like a rock, while d'Artagnan simply leaned against him, resting his forehead on Athos' shoulder, his arms dangling limply at his sides, and just breathed.

Neither man could have said how long they stood like that. Neither spoke, for no more words were needed. d'Artagnan was weary beyond words, and Athos knew that what d'Artagnan needed – reassurance, comfort, approval – was completely expressed in the warmth of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the beating of his heart under d'Artagnan's bruised cheek.

Eventually they heard footsteps bounding down the stairs, and Porthos' booming voice enthusing about the smell of bread which was drifting into the taproom. d'Artagnan raised his head, took an unsteady step back and cleared his throat. In companionable silence, Athos found him a clean shirt and braes in the pile of spare clothes gathered by the landlady, and helped d'Artagnan to struggle into the borrowed garments, then leant him a shoulder back upstairs to their room.


	28. Chapter 28: Heading Home

_Thanks again for all the reviews and encouragement. To Missdee, and Debbie, who I can't reply to directly, thanks for the great feedback and Debbie - I didn't think about Spanish boots, dammit!_

 **Chapter 28: Heading Home**

It was around four hours after dawn before they were ready to mount up again, but Athos was happy that the time had been well spent. Constance and the Queen looked a lot less like working girls now, in their borrowed dresses and with their hair washed and tidied off their faces. He suspected King Louis would still have a fit when he saw his Queen – the plain brown dress she wore was clean but that was pretty much the only point in its favour – but it was better than arriving at the palace with a hem-less dress showing far too much royal knee.

Aramis had slept for an hour and looked much better when Porthos woke him with a proud look on his face, holding out a pain draught he'd mixed from Aramis' supplies. After a sniff and a cautious taste, Aramis had conceded that he wasn't going to be poisoned and consented to drink it while Porthos checked his wounds. The stitches in his arm were still intact but the wound in his side was looking inflamed and sore, so Porthos cleaned it carefully and doused it in wine, finishing with a clean bandage and a hug for the marksman's stoicism. The marksman's eyes were pinched, betraying the headache he couldn't shake, but Porthos kept quiet, knowing that nothing would persuade Aramis to admit his pain when d'Artagnan was so clearly suffering more.

Aramis had then hauled himself to his feet and visited the women next door, taking Constance a cup of Porthos' pain potion to drink before he checked and reset her broken arm. Thankfully this was all done by the time d'Artagnan and Athos had rejoined them upstairs, so d'Artagnan missed the faint which Constance would forever deny. And if Aramis lingered a little whilst checking the scratches on the Queen's face, and asked her one time too many if she was alright, or had any other injuries - well, Constance wasn't telling.

Most of them had eaten ravenously and Porthos' four helpings had sent the landlady off looking pink-cheeked and pleased. Predictably, Aramis had turned ashen at the offer of food, and d'Artagnan had managed only a few bites of the fresh-baked bread, but Aramis had made sure d'Artagnan drank the last portion of the pain draught and thought he looked better for it.

Athos had spent the best part of an hour dressing d'Artagnan's various wounds under Aramis' direction. The landlord had produced a pot of horse liniment which he said was just the thing for healing scratches and burns. Aramis had sniffed it cautiously but detected only beeswax and juniper berries, so released it gladly to Athos who smeared it liberally on d'Artagnan's shoulder, chest and stomach, before wrapping his battered torso carefully and firmly. Constance and the Queen both helped to re-wrap d'Artagnan's feet, and the innkeeper donated a pair of his old boots which had cracked leather uppers and holes in the soles, but would at least support his feet whilst riding.

Aramis tutted over the slices on d'Artagnan's hands where he'd grabbed Sanchez' sword, but to d'Artagnan's relief admitted he couldn't focus well enough at the moment to stitch such a delicate area, and decided the wounds would wait until their return to Paris, so they padded his palms and bandaged firmly over the top so he could hold reins, albeit awkwardly.

Athos had been so busy making sure everyone else was looked after that he hadn't even thought about his own wound. He was taken by surprise, therefore, when Porthos pulled him to one side as he headed out to make sure that the horses were ready. Then he saw the bandages and sewing pouch in Porthos' hands, and made a face.

"Oh, yes, my friend." Porthos chuckled. "You don't get to hide your injuries!" Athos protested that he wasn't hiding anything, had simply been too busy and ... Porthos just gave him a look, and he subsided onto a straw bale in the stable, obediently slipping his doublet off and unlacing his shirt to expose his shoulder. Porthos peered at the wound and prodded carefully around it. "It's not too deep but it's looking a bit red, Athos. And it definitely needs stitching."

Athos groaned quietly. Porthos might hate being stitched himself but for some reason always relished the chance to practise on others – and he definitely needed the practice. At least it was keeping him cheerful, he reflected, listening to Porthos' tuneless whistling as he cleaned the wound thoroughly with alcohol, then stuck his tongue firmly in the corner of his mouth as he put five stitches in. At the end Athos blew out a relieved breath and let Porthos help him back on with his shirt and doublet before clapping him the shoulder in silent thanks.

It was a silent group who gathered in the courtyard where the stable boy, sweating after his labours, had turned out six groomed, fed and rested horses. Aramis watched Porthos looking in vain for a mounting block for the Queen, sniggering quietly to himself as Porthos blanched when he notice the Queen holding her hands out towards him with an expectant smile. Swallowing audibly, Porthos made as if to put his hands around her waist, ready to lift her into her saddle, but hesitated with two inches to go before his hands actually touched her. The Queen regarded him calmly but with a definite twinkle in her eye as he dithered, looking frantically to d'Artagnan then Aramis for support which wasn't coming. Eventually Athos took pity, drifted behind him and muttered "Just do it" as he passed on his way to assist d'Artagnan to mount. Porthos huffed, averted his eyes, wrapped his meaty hands around her tiny waist and lifted her effortlessly into the saddle then let go as if she were scalding hot the instant she was seated.

"Thank you, Monsieur Porthos," she smiled. Then laughed out loud at the look of outrage on his face when Aramis helpfully pointed out the mounting block Constance was now using. Porthos growled and stomped over to his own horse.

They fell easily into their accustomed roles, with Aramis ranging ahead in spite of his thumping head, and Porthos bringing up the rear. d'Artagnan was clearly in a lot of pain in spite of the pain draught, and after only a short time was struggling to stay alert in the saddle. He'd had no rest at the Inn, and all his injuries throbbed more than ever after being cleaned and dressed, no matter how gently, by Athos.

Athos rode close to d'Artagnan and the two women, who were talking quietly about their plans on returning to Paris. Constance couldn't wait for a proper bath in the steam room at the Palace, and vowed to sleep then for a whole day before rising again. The Queen was longing to see the Dauphin – and to get rid of the awful farmer's boots she'd been wearing for days. But there was a look of anxiety underpinning all her words and Athos knew she was apprehensive about the King's mood when they finally returned.

After two hours at a fast walk, d'Artagnan's complexion had turned greyer than ever and Athos decided to call a rest stop. As he went to speak however, d'Artagnan manoeuvred his mare alongside the women and suggested they up the pace. Frowning in irritation at the lad's stubbornness, and not missing the glance d'Artagnan threw his way before wrapping his legs around his mare's flanks and pushing her into a slow canter, Athos held his breath as the lad lurched to one side, but then settled himself as the women followed. Sighing at the Gascon's stubbornness, Athos signalled to Porthos to catch up.

D'Artagnan managed ten minutes at a canter, then had to give in when Aramis insisted that the horses needed a breather and found them somewhere to stop. Porthos got a fire going and water on to boil while Aramis sat d'Artagnan firmly down and checked him over, ignoring his half-hearted protests. Athos took the horses to drink while the women settled themselves and dug out the goats' cheese, bread and drink donated by the innkeeper as they left.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stop the trembling that threatened to betray his exhaustion. Suddenly he felt a warmth at his shoulder and found Constance peering at him anxiously. She handed him a cup of spiced cider which he accepted automatically, then peered suspiciously into its contents. Looking up he met Aramis' rueful gaze.

"It's a mild painkiller," the medic admitted. "We've got a long way to go; you will need it."

d'Artagnan sighed but took a sip. He hated feeling drugged but he was in so much pain he didn't really have the energy to argue.

Constance nudged him gently. "How are you doing?" she asked softly.

He considered the possible responses. ("Fine" would probably earn him a slap; "awful" would worry her.) "Um..." He heard her tut and hastily decided on a diversion. "How is your arm?"

There was a pause and he knew, without looking, that she would be glaring at him. He felt a rush of love for this amazing woman who challenged him, supported him, made him laugh and cry... Before he could stop himself, he blurted out: "I'm so sorry, Constance."

"What for?" Her calmness unnerved him and he risked a glance to his right. She was looking at him quizzically, not angrily.

"For... for letting go of you in the river. I... thought I'd lost you and you broke your arm, and it was all my fault, I – ow!" He stopped abruptly as she punched him lightly on the sore shoulder, eyes blazing.

"Does that make us even?" she demanded.

"I... what?" He was lost.

"You hurt me, I hurt you...?"

He squinted at her, lost. "I don't know what you... It doesn't work like that. It's not about trading who did what..." He stopped, seeing the frown disappear and her smile returning.

"There you go."

There was a long silence while he tried not to gape at her. She had turned away now, apparently content that the conversation was over, whilst he had no clue what had just happened. He heard a low chuckle and saw Porthos laughing to himself as he cleared up the food. He looked around seeing Aramis smirking and Athos standing watching impassively, arms folded across his chest.

"What?" he demanded, feeling cross and confused.

"That was worthy of one of our conversations, indeed," commented Aramis, rising with a slight wince and heading towards the horses to tighten their girths.

"One of them silent ones, you mean?" queried Porthos, grinning as Aramis nodded.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos, hopefully. Athos' eyes flickered to Constance, who was now helping the Queen to her feet and brushing leaves off her skirt. "Just think about it," he advised quietly, holding out a hand to pull d'Artagnan to his feet.

d'Artagnan huffed in frustration but accepted a leg-up from Porthos and rode off with his chin up, refusing to look at anyone else since they'd clearly all gone mad.

* * *

Long before their next rest stop d'Artagnan had given up thinking about the mysteries of women or why Constance had rebuffed his apology for her broken arm. He was too busy trying to stay conscious. Every fibre of his being was now screaming out in agony and it took every bit of self-control to keep from groaning with pain or begging to stop. He bit his lip and stared resolutely at the Queen, reminding himself why he had insisted on travelling back with the others and trying to calculate how far they still had to go.

They finally emerged from the forest above Paris several long hours after sunset. The flickering torchlight at the west gate was just visible and had never looked so welcome. By this time Athos was riding behind d'Artagnan again, holding him around the waist to keep him upright and frowning with anxiety. They were all weary beyond words but d'Artagnan was literally reeling in the saddle, unable to focus properly and responding to questions with the fewest words possible.

Porthos caught up to them as they started down the slope. "How 'bout I ride ahead, get word to Tréville to meet us at the palace?" he suggested.

Athos considered, and nodded. He should have thought of it himself. Porthos grinned and set off, calling out to Aramis as he passed him.

When the others reached the gate they found Porthos waiting for them. At Athos' look of query, Porthos said he'd found Gasnault, one of the young recruits, stationed at the gate; Tréville had apparently set a watch rotation for the last 24 hours with orders to ride straight to the palace if the missing party were seen; the Captain himself was already at the palace. Athos exchanged a look with Porthos; if Tréville was there, it meant the King was upset, anxious or angry.

Or quite possibly all three.

* * *

 _This feels like my lamest chapter, but I needed to get them back to Paris in one piece ready to face the King. Two more longer chapters to go!_


	29. Chapter 29: Debrief

_A_ huge _thank you for all your encouragement including the guest reviewers. I have particularly enjoyed the reviews in French which I regard as a compliment, although I had to turn to Google translate(not always helpful). So kudos to those of you who read these stories in a language other than your own. You have my respect!_

 _At Debbie, my apologies for confusing you; my mistake, it was CheProfe who wondered why no-one thought to "borrow" boots from a dead Spaniard (good point)!_

 _Hot off the press, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. I have only just finished reviewing it so I'm sorry I'm a bit late posting tonight. It was the one I was most dreading writing as there were so many different ways the interview with the King could go. Hope you like my choice._

 **Chapter 29: Debrief**

As they clattered up the stone ramp leading to the east gate of the palace, Athos could see unusual activity ahead. As they got nearer, the scene resolved itself into a hustle of Red Guards, footmen, stable lads... and Tréville, pacing back and forth just outside the gate, with Gasnault standing nervously at his side. A sudden feeling of utter relief surged through Athos, taking him by surprise. Never one to duck his duty, for once he couldn't wait to hand over responsibility for everyone's well-being to Tréville, and sink into a warm, soft bed. Firmly he pushed away that enticing image, and told himself to concentrate. They would all need their wits about them if they were to get through the debrief with the King.

As Tréville caught sight of their small cavalcade he strode forward towards them, shouting at the footmen to come forward. Athos drew to a halt and handed Nuit's reins to Gasnault as he ran up. Tréville bowed to the Queen, waited whilst a footman handed her down from her horse then greeted her with "Your Majesty, it is very good to see you safe and ... well." The last word sounded slightly tentative as he took in her strange clothing and the scratches on her face and arms. She stepped towards him, smiling warmly.

"Thank you, Captain. It is good to be back. But you are here so late; is the King ... up?"

He knew full well what she was really asking. "His Majesty will be very glad to see you. He has been waiting, anxiously, for the last two days." He paused, raising an eyebrow slightly in query. She turned to find Constance at her shoulder, and gave her a slightly nervous smile.

"In that case let us not keep him waiting any longer. Come, Constance," she instructed calmly, and swept towards the staircase leading to the King's private quarters with all the dignity that a borrowed peasant dress and hobnailed boots allowed her.

Tréville paused to greet Porthos and Aramis, clasping them briefly by the arm in a gesture that spoke volumes about his relief at their return. He could see the exhaustion in the way they dismounted, and the pinched look on Aramis' face hinted at injuries he couldn't spot, but the marksman mustered a smile and assured him that he was well. Tréville paused in front of him long enough to let Aramis to know that he didn't believe a word of it, before turning away with a small smile. He'd expected nothing less, of course.

Athos had dismounted and was carefully helping d'Artagnan to slide to the ground. Tréville looked as if he was going to ask a question, but thought better of it, seeing immediately that d'Artagnan needed attention. "Aramis, Porthos, take d'Artagnan back to the Garrison. Gasnault, ride ahead and let them know to expect him; we'll need Doctor Lemay, and get the infirmary warmed up, and tell Serge – "

Athos cut him off, apologetically. "Captain, with respect, the Queen has requested that d'Artagnan be present. He can give witness to more events than I."

Tréville's eyebrows shot up at that, and he gave Athos a sharp look, but acquiesced, trusting his lieutenant's judgement, and came forward to help d'Artagnan towards the stairs. Unfortunately he took him by the left elbow, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the Gascon. Tréville let go immediately as Porthos hurried forward.

"I'll 'elp 'im, Captain. I know what bits to 'old and what not to touch," he explained, putting a hand under d'Artagnan's right forearm and ignoring the mumble that could have been "I'm fine".

Tréville watched the pair weave their way towards the stairs, with Aramis hovering just ahead, and the Queen and Constance waiting at the top of the staircase.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" enquired Tréville, mildly.

Athos shrugged, managing to convey reluctance, it's-out-of-my-hands, and admiration all at the same time. "He took the brunt of it," he said, quietly.

"You surprise me," Tréville commented drily.

They caught up to the Queen and pretended not to notice as Porthos gave up trying to steer d'Artagnan on legs as uncoordinated as a newborn foal, wrapped his arms around the Gascon's upper body, and simply picked him up as if he were a tailor's dummy, whisking him up the stairs and depositing him back on his feet at the top. "Ain't nobody lookin'," Porthos assured him glibly, ignoring the exhausted Musketeer's feeble protest.

They had just turned into the antechamber when the doors at the far end burst open and the King swept out, flanked by two footmen and – of course! - Rochefort.

"Anne, my dear!" he called dramatically, "where _have_ you been? I've been beside myself waiting for you – " He suddenly stopped dead and stared at her, aghast. "What – what are you wearing? And those boots... What happened?" He looked behind her as she approached him holding both her hands out, and caught sight of the four weary Musketeers following Tréville. "What is the meaning of this? Captain, report!"

Tréville came forward reluctantly, as yet having no idea what had transpired or how to respond. Fortunately the Queen took charge by taking the King's hands and clasping them warmly, beaming into his eyes. "You shall hear everything, Sire. We have had quite a time of it! But first let me assure you that I am well, in spite of my unusual dress. My own clothes were ruined by our adventures and I have been loaned these by the kindest of our citizens. You would be so proud to meet them, Sire. Now, I shall ask Athos to explain the start of our adventures whilst you and I get comfortable. Constance, you must retire and rest yourself. I will see you in the morning."

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder as she led the King towards the throne room. Athos swallowed, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as he followed, ignoring the sympathetic glances from Aramis and Porthos as they followed, steering d'Artagnan with them.

Constance hesitated then left reluctantly, appreciating the Queen's gesture in releasing her from what no doubt could be a long and uncomfortable audience with the King.

D'Artagnan stood in line with the other Musketeers in front of the throne, trying not to sway. His body was on the brink of rebellion. He had barely slept since leaving Paris five days earlier and there was a roaring in his ears which he knew was the result of total exhaustion. The cuts on his hands were throbbing; his foot felt as if it was on fire; the skin around the dog bites on his elbow was hot and inflamed; and his shoulder was agony from the mangled skin through to the pain deep in the bone.

He struggled to follow the conversation. He heard the Queen explain that Hernán had turned up instead of Emilia, and the King's subsequent explosion. He heard Athos' calm voice interject, talking about soldiers and inns but he must have drifted away as the Queen started talking again, her softer voice lulling him. A while later he was aware of a warm body on his right, leaning against him. He looked, feeling as if his head was moving in slow motion, and found it was Porthos. For a moment he wondered why Porthos was leaning on him. Then he realised it might be him leaning on Porthos. His head ached, and he just wanted to sleep...

Porthos nudged him and he wobbled on his feet, bouncing off someone standing on his left. Aramis.

"The King asked you a question," Aramis hissed in his ear. D'Artagnan jerked his head up and squinted at the throne, finding both royals looking at him with contrasting degrees of patience.

"What's wrong with him? Is he ill?" he heard the King ask, querulously.

Athos stepped in again. "He was solely responsible for keeping Her Majesty safe for most of this time, Your Majesty. He has suffered a number of injuries and – "

"Can you not speak for yourself, d'Artagnan?" the King demanded.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I apologise for missing the question. If you could repeat it...?" d'Artagnan's voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat.

"I _said_ ," the King emphasised tetchily, "why didn't you just stay put, meet up with the others as soon as you were safe, and get straight back to Paris? I don't understand why you dragged the Queen around the countryside for so long. And in those _dread_ ful shoes!"

He could feel Aramis and Porthos looking at him, no doubt wondering how he would respond. Put like that it sounded quite reasonable – just meet up and get home. How hadn't it been that simple?

"Your Majesty," he began, then stopped, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. The impossibility of explaining his decisions, and the absolute certainty that the King would not understand engulfed him and he shook his head.

"I'm waiting," the King sang out, impatiently. He shushed the Queen who had started to speak, and stared at d'Artagnan.

"Now might be a good time to faint," Aramis whispered without moving his lips. d'Artagnan blinked, and then took a deep breath. He was not going to faint. He was going to explain, then face the consequences. He started speaking about the men following them from the Pheasant Inn, and hearing more men searching the banks as they escaped across the river; looking for help at the first mansion and finding it overrun with Spaniards –

"How many were there?" interjected Rochefort, sounding bored.

"I don't know," answered d'Artagnan honestly. "I saw around twenty arriving on horseback but there were more already in the house."

"Twenty?" the King sounded slightly less sceptical now.

Athos decided to seize the moment. "Your Majesty, we estimate we dealt with around 50 mercenaries – all those that we came across – but we do not know if more remain in the area or have returned to Spain."

Porthos nudged d'Artagnan again. "Spent half the ride back tryin' to work it out. We reckoned 9 or 10 for you, sound right?" he whispered. d'Artagnan didn't have time to answer before the King was quizzing Athos, diverted from the question of d'Artagnan's decision-making by the details of the numbers they had faced and how they had defeated them. His voice sounded happier now as the evidence of his Musketeers' bravery and superior skills was laid out skilfully by Athos' concise reporting.

d'Artagnan only half listened, feeling Porthos' arm warm against his, appreciating the feeling of safety it gave him. His head was thumping and it hurt to move his eyes. He focussed on a point just past the King's right ear, concentrating fiercely on one of the ornate panels framed in gilt behind him, but the shapes swirled and pulsed in a way that made him feel sick. He swallowed convulsively, feeling bile rising in his throat and sweat springing to his brow.

Then Aramis was whispering in his ear, telling him to hold it together, to breathe, to focus, and a sudden pain in his arm brought him sharply back to the here and now. He looked down to find Aramis was squeezing his arm fiercely just above his bandages.

"Eyes front," hissed Porthos on his other side. d'Artagnan was light-headed now, breathing too fast, and for an awful moment he thought he was going to faint. He focussed desperately on the royals again, finding the Queen was whispering at the King, looking at him, and he tried to straighten: determined not to give in, not to show weakness.

Muffled voices ebbed and flowed around him. Then he caught the words "capture" and "barn" and the sounds seemed to flood back into his head. The Queen was talking urgently but the King had sprung to his feet and was striding towards him. d'Artagnan blinked sweat out of his eyes and risked a glance at Porthos, finding the burly musketeer watching him carefully, compassion in his eyes. "Keep it together," he had time to whisper, before the King had arrived in front of d'Artagnan.

"Can you explain how you came to be alone in a barn with the Queen of France, d'Artagnan?" he demanded, icily.

The Queen caught up with him, looked flustered. "Sire, I have explained that we were captured..."

"Due to d'Artagnan's incompetency!" the King shouted, making d'Artagnan jump. The King paced up and down in front of him. "How did you let yourself get captured? And just how long did you spend alone – with _my wife_?" The last two words were hissed and echoed around the vast room for a moment. It seemed everyone else had stopped breathing and all eyes were on d'Artagnan.

He felt, rather than saw, Athos step forward half a pace, and Tréville slide a hand out to still the Lieutenant. d'Artagnan swallowed, feeling a surge of adrenaline and using it to give him the to respond. "There were four horsemen, and I had no weapons, Sire. I tried to draw them away from the Queen by running ..."

"Leaving the Queen defenceless, on her own?"

The only honest answer to this was yes. He could feel Aramis quivering beside him, as if he wanted to speak, so he rushed on. "I hoped the Queen and Madame Bonacieux could remain hidden but I had no other options... Sire, I am so sorry to have put her life at risk."

"By running away!"

"No, Sire, I..."

"You dare to contradict me?"

"I ... was trying to protect her. If I had stayed when they saw me, I would certainly have been killed and she would have been found. I did not seek to run away – I knew I could not outrun the horses. I hoped instead to draw the men away, to give the Queen time to hide..."

"He ran so fast, in spite of his injuries, Sire," the Queen spoke softly, wary of angering the King. He scowled but didn't stop her so she carried on, eyes fastened on the King as he continued to glare at d'Artagnan. "Constance and I swopped dresses, so when they captured me they were confused and didn't realise who I was. They took us to the barn and questioned d'Artagnan to find out where I – where the Queen was. But he didn't tell them Sire, although they questioned him all night, and hurt him most grievously."

She looked at d'Artagnan now, who kept his eyes on the ground for fear of inflaming things further. He had a long list of things _not_ to tell the King, and was afraid his eyes would give him away. Details like the way he'd suggested to their captors that the Queen was a whore accompanying the Musketeers: he really did not think the King would appreciate that this had saved the Queen from unwanted advances by the Spaniards. Nor would he be happy to hear how she had distracted the guard by behaving like a call girl in order to get the dagger. Let alone that she'd inadvertently killed that guard by whacking him over the head with a lantern and setting fire to him.

For selfish reasons he was also very keen that no one would find out how much of his interrogation the Queen had witnessed. Or that he had pissed himself in the course of the beating. The fact that the Queen had to been witness to his complete physical humiliation was almost worse than the whole whore thing, although he had a strong inkling that the King might not agree.

More than anything though, he was hoping that no one would feel the need to explain to the King just how it was that later on in the forest, his Queen had been left aiming a pistol at the mercenaries' Captain, whilst the other Musketeers lay injured on the ground or off fetching horses.

He dragged his attention back to the present, feeling the tension crackling around the room. After the Queen's mention of his 'questioning', there was a long silence in the chamber while the King stared at d'Artagnan. The Queen stood quietly by his side, her eyes flicking from the King to d'Artagnan and the other Musketeers. d'Artagnan tried to keep his breathing calm, tried to ignore the sweat dripping into his eyes and the way the floor was dipping and swaying like the deck of a boat. The silence stretched on and he finally raised his eyes to the King's.

The royal visage was impassive, his eyes unreadable as he scrutinised his Musketeer. He seemed to come to some decision and went to speak - but before he could, the silence was broken by someone clearing their throat to the King's right.

Rochefort! D'Artagnan had forgotten he was there; the man had been characteristically silent, lurking in the background like a cobra waiting for the right moment to strike. And here he came, gliding up and stepping between d'Artagnan and the King.

"How long were you alone with the Queen?"

d'Artagnan stilled, then almost laughed. Of all the things he was anxious for the King not to know, this was what Rochefort focussed on?

"We were not alone. I was being questioned, and they only left me alone when I was unconscious," he replied, quietly.

The King turned to the Queen. "Were you threatened, then, my Queen, when d'Artagnan was unable to defend you?"

D'Artagnan noticed his tone was softer now and he hoped that the focus on all his mistakes had at least lifted suspicion from the Queen. She hastened to reassure him now, telling him that the mercenaries had ignored her, thinking she was just a servant, that the guard had fallen asleep allowing her to undo her bindings, and that she had helped d'Artagnan to cut his ropes. D'Artagnan flicked her a glance at this creatively loose interpretation of the circumstances of their escape. For a moment he dared to hope that the corner had been turned in this inquisition as the King displayed his concern.

But it seemed Rochefort had other ideas. Suddenly his smug visage filled d'Artagnan's field of vision and he couldn't help but flinch as Rochefort's cold eyes bored into him from inches away.

"You expect us to believe that you were beaten, all night, by Spaniards looking for the Queen, and then they let you escape?" His maddeningly slow delivery successfully drew all attention back to him. He prowled – no other word for it – in front of d'Artagnan then reached out a hand slowly towards him. d'Artagnan's eyes followed his hand, mesmerised, trying not to flinch as a forefinger traced the bruise on his chin. "Apart from your face, they don't appear to have done much damage. Could you be ... exaggerating? Or are you Musketeers less robust than you would have the King believe?" His sing-song voice dripped each word like acid. "Shall we see?"

There was a sudden flurry of motion as d'Artagnan found a dagger pointing at his chest; seemingly simultaneously there was a growl from Porthos, a sharp command from Tréville, a protest from the Queen, and Aramis' hand pushing the dagger's blade down, away from his chest. There was a roaring in d'Artagnan's ears as he slowly raised his eyes from the dagger and glared into Rochefort's face, finding that he did, apparently, have some energy left as he clenched a fist painfully, wanting to smash that smug smile into the next room but controlling himself with an effort, aware of Athos' almost imperceptible nod of approval.

To d'Artagnan's intense satisfaction a twitch from Rochefort told him his murderous intent was obvious as the other man took a half step back. Then his stomach lurched as the King said matter of factly: "Yes, good idea, Rochefort. Let's see the damage."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from his left and a muffled, injudicious oath from his right. Then Athos was there, stepping carefully into the crowded space and ignoring another warning from Tréville.

"Sire, his injuries have been treated and bandaged. It would not be appropriate or advisable to..."

"Are you denying my wishes, Athos?" The King snapped at him, and the highly-charged atmosphere seemed to sizzle around the room.

D'Artagnan couldn't breathe. His heart was thundering, vision blurring as he tried not to drop his gaze from Rochefort, tried not to let him see just how much he loathed the man and his odious voice and his... his _power_. For it was power that allowed his blade to drift up the outside of d'Artagnan's shirt as he stepped close again, never taking his eyes from d'Artagnan's own. The blade snagged on the strings lacing the shirt and then Rochefort turned it and started to slice down. To be stopped this time by d'Artagnan's own hand, snapping around the blade in a white-knuckled grip.

The tableau froze and into the stillness d'Artagnan spoke softly. "This shirt was loaned to me by a man of integrity and loyalty to the King. I would prefer to return it in one piece."

Without dropping his gaze, d'Artagnan pushed the dagger away and took a small step – _forward_ , right into Rochefort's space. Nose to nose now, d'Artagnan pulled at the strings fastening the shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, exposing the bandages wrapped around his shoulders and chest. Pulling his own dagger, ignoring a small protest from Aramis, he sliced roughly through the bandages, his fingers ripping them away from his skin, feeling anger coursing through his body at what he was doing and not bothering to hide that anger from Rochefort. In places the bandages stuck where his wounds had bled or oozed during the ride home, but he pulled uncaring at them until they gave way, his upper lip curling in contempt and his eyes blazing as he stripped his torso and bared himself for the King's inspection.

He was lucky, reflected Athos, watching in disbelief, that it was Rochefort who had suggested stripping him, and Rochefort standing in the way of that furious gaze, not the King, or d'Artagnan would surely have been dragged away by the guards by now. As it was, his defiance raged out of every inch of him. Rochefort had clearly intended to humiliate him by stripping him in front of the King. d'Artagnan had turned that on its head by taking control, and in the process had shown the King just how bright burns the fire inside a Musketeer's belly when he is threatened.

Holding his breath, Athos dared to look at the King, who was watching with a kind of fascinated revulsion as the full extent of d'Artagnan's injuries were revealed. Behind him he heard Tréville's intake of breath at the evidence of the battering the Gascon had taken. In the ornate surroundings of the palace, the ugly bruises and torn flesh that marred his whole torso looked even worse than when Athos had treated them at the inn in La Loupe. He could see Aramis twitching in distress, hands hovering ready to support d'Artagnan, and Porthos' nostrils flaring as he struggled to remain impassive.

The silence stretched, and it felt like no one was going to back down. Rochefort was motionless, only his gaze flicking down to d'Artagnan's chest, oozing new blood where he'd ripped the bandages in his controlled fury.

Finally the Queen, who had remained almost forgotten at the King's side, laid her gentle fingers on his arm and spoke softly. "You can see how much d'Artagnan endured in order to keep my identity hidden, Sire. He could not have done more to protect me."

For a moment longer the silence quivered in the room. Then the King nodded. "Indeed," he agreed quietly.

Rochefort's face twitched, there was a flash of some dark emotion then his impassivity returned and he turned sharply and walked away. Aramis immediately gathered the shirt and began covering d'Artagnan again with a muttered "with your permission, Your Majesty" that, to Athos' ears sounded dangerously sarcastic, but fortunately the tone went unnoticed after the tension of the last few minutes.

The King turned to the Queen. "My dear, you look exhausted and we have kept you too long. You must retire and we will talk more in the morning." She nodded, and cast a quick look around the gathering as she turned to leave, offering a soft smile to the Musketeers that could have been aimed at all of them. Or just one; it was hard to tell.

"Tréville, a word, please. We need to decide on our response to this intolerable impertinence from Spain. The rest of you can go." The King turned back towards his throne as they bowed – which was fortunate because d'Artagnan simply stood rooted, swaying slightly as the adrenaline drained from his body, unable even to dip his head.

Rochefort stepped towards the King importantly but stopped dead as the King waved him away. "Not now, Rochefort." There was a snort of amusement from Porthos as he and Aramis supported d'Artagnan towards the doors, which Rochefort could not help but hear as he moved reluctantly towards the back of the room.

Suddenly the King stood again and called out "Wait!" The four Musketeers paused and d'Artagnan closed his eyes briefly, wondering if this torturous audience would ever end as he heard the King stride towards them.

" _Courage_ , _mon ami,_ " whispered Aramis as he helped d'Artagnan turn back to the King.

The King stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. "I am grateful that you brought the Queen back safely. You have proven your loyalty, d'Artagnan." He paused, allowing himself a small smile as d'Artagnan raised his head wearily to his King. "Thank you, d'Artagnan. All of you." He nodded once then turned back to Tréville, leaving a quartet of astonished Musketeers hastily bowing again behind him.


	30. Chapter 30:Garrison

_I lied... it seems there will be 31 chapters in all. I had the Epilogue written ready to go up tonight, but some reviews reminded me that there were lots of conversations still to have. So here's a short bonus chapter. Final one tomorrow!_

 **Chapter 30: Garrison**

D'Artagnan remembered nothing of the journey back to the Garrison. He was simply spent, all his reserves gone. He didn't remember riding in front of Porthos through the dark streets, or being carried upstairs to his room, or Aramis - in spite of his own pain - fussing over washing his wounds and re-bandaging them before settling him on extra pillows in an attempt to cushion his battered body.

He didn't remember Serge turning up in his nightshirt with wine and soup, or Tréville appearing to beckon Athos away so they could map where Musketeers would be sent in the morning to root out any remaining mercenaries.

He didn't hear 20 eager Musketeers clattering out of the yard at dawn, or Constance visiting in the afternoon, looked rested and vibrant in fresh clothes and gleaming hair. He didn't feel her sitting stroking his own sweaty hair and washing him with cool water as his temperature rose with a fever that lasted two days. He didn't hear Aramis reassuring her that it could have been much worse, after all the wounds that had been left untreated.

He didn't hear Porthos laughing at Tréville's description of Rochefort's silent fury as the King ordered him to take an escort of Red Guards to St Malo to search the harbour and ensure Hernán had truly returned to Spain.

He did surface briefly from his exhausted sleep when Aramis soaked the bandages off his hands, cleaned the burns and blanched at the depth of the wounds from grabbing Sanchez' sword. Apologetically Aramis told the half-conscious Gascon that the cuts on his palms needed stitching, and d'Artagnan had managed to nod and mumble something before falling back asleep, flinching occasionally as the stitches went in, but otherwise oblivious to anything but the bliss of sleeping in a soft bed.

* * *

He roused for the first time properly on the second night following their return. The room was dim, lit by flickering firelight and a couple of candle stubs, and he had to blink to bring everything into focus after so long asleep. A dark shape in the chair by the window resolved itself into a dozing Athos, book clutched upside down on his chest, and d'Artagnan smiled to see his mentor sleeping neatly and silently as always.

He lay for a while without moving, slowly taking stock of his body and finding that, mostly, things seemed to have settled into a background hum of pain. He was propped up on a whole pile of bolsters which were carefully arranged to avoid putting pressure on his shoulder. That still hurt – a lot, he discovered when he tried to prop himself up on his elbows to look for water. Suppressing a yelp he flopped back to the pillows and held his breath for a moment until he had the pain under control. Eventually the need for a drink overtook his reluctance to move, and he tried again, this time pushing himself carefully up on just his right elbow.

He reached carefully for the cup of water standing on the table beside his bed, and tried to pick it up, but his hands were heavily bandaged, and wouldn't open enough for him to grip the cup. He huffed in annoyance and tried picking up the pottery jug standing next to the cup, but this time his hand wouldn't close tight enough to get a good grip on the handle. Gaagh! This was ridiculous...

Athos cleared his throat and d'Artagnan jumped, sending the cup crashing to the floor. " _Merde_! You scared me!" he grumbled in a croaking voice that quickly dissolved into a coughing fit.

Athos was immediately by his side, helping him to sit upright until the coughing eased, then poured him another cup of water and helped him to drink before easing him back to the pillows when he'd had his fill.

"Thanks. Sorry I woke you." d'Artagnan's voice sounded better after the water.

Athos sat on the bed, ignoring the apology and regarding d'Artagnan with his clear green gaze. "How are you feeling?"

"Good... better," he amended hastily, seeing the eyebrow rise. When Athos didn't immediately respond d'Artagnan chuckled. "At least I didn't say 'fine'!".

This time Athos smiled. "You must be feeling better."

"That's what I said. You never believe me!" He was rewarded with another smile from Athos, and a lightening of the worry that had etched itself on his features. He settled back, already feeling stupidly tired even after a short conversation, but he didn't want to sleep yet.

"How is everyone? Is Aramis over his concussion? And the Queen ... " – everything was flooding back into his conscious mind now, questions piling up as he remembered the excruciating interview with the King the night they returned – "...is she recovering? Have you spoken to her – has she talked about anything? And Constance, how is her arm? Has she..." He stopped as a strange noise emanated from his mentor, a noise he eventually identified as a chuckle. He stared. "Are you laughing at me?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Of course not," Athos said crisply, smiling broadly in complete contradiction to his words. "But you have a lot of questions for someone with a fever. Maybe we should wait until you're feeling better..."

"I _am_ feeling better!" d'Artagnan was cross now. "And I do have a lot of questions because I've missed a day..."

"Two days."

"All right, two da – Really? Two days?" he paused, trying to get his head around the gap in his memory, then shook his head and carried on. "So what happened with Hérnan? Has he really gone back to Spain? And what did Tréville say? Is he ... did he..." suddenly he sounded hesitant: "did he think I made a mess of it?"

Athos stopped chuckling abruptly and stared at d'Artagnan. "Is that what you think? That you made a mess of it?"

D'Artagnan picked at the frayed edge of the bandage on his hand. "I thought... well, I did, didn't I? I nearly killed the Queen crossing the river, Constance broke her arm, we couldn't find you, we couldn't find shelter, then I got us captured, oh and I called her a whore and then she had to kill Sanchez..." His voice petered out, seeing Athos' expression. "What?"

"You called the Queen a – _whore_?" Athos checked, carefully.

"Yes – well no, not exactly, but..." d'Artagnan sighed, suddenly feeling too exhausted to explain. Although that could have had more to do with the feeling of failure was washing over him as he remembered all his mistakes.

Athos suddenly rose and crossed to the table by the fire, picking up a wine bottle and pouring two glasses. Handing one to d'Artagnan he settled back on the bed, this time leaning against the wall with his legs outstretched in an unmistakably relaxed pose. "Much as I want to hear about the ... _whore_... thing," he said, "First of all I have to tell you something."

He regarded d'Artagnan seriously and the Gascon felt a chill. Was it Constance? Or Aramis – no, but he remembered Aramis working on his hands so he was surely alright. Porthos? He hadn't asked after him yet. Or was it bad news from the palace?

"Stop it." Athos's tone was dry but gentle at the same time, the Gascon's expressions giving away the direction of his thoughts. "I am only going to say this once, so listen carefully." He leaned forward and caught d'Artagnan's eye, making sure he was paying attention.

"I'm listening but Athos please, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong – far from it. You did a remarkable job of keeping the Queen – and Constance – alive and safe, in difficult circumstances." He paused, considering. " _Very_ difficult circumstances," he emphasised. He paused again, looking at d'Artagnan, and frowning when he saw the young Musketeer still looked worried. "You are _so_ stubborn, aren't you? Hear me, d'Artagnan, _hear_ me. I am _proud_ of you."

d'Artagnan's heart twisted and he chewed on his bottom lip, eyes fastened on Athos', not quite sure if he could believe the words he had longed to hear so many times since his father died. Then another voice chimed in.

" _We_ are proud of you, 'e means." d'Artagnan whipped his head around to find Porthos peeling himself off the door frame where he'd obviously been leaning with his arms crossed, shamelessly eavesdropping.

Aramis followed Porthos into the room, carrying a tray laden with steaming bowls of stew. "Good to see you awake at last, young 'un," he grinned, depositing the tray on the table then moving swiftly to the bed to check the temperature d'Artagnan's forehead with the back of his hand.

"So 'as 'e got it yet, Athos?" Porthos enquired, plonking himself down by the fire and stretching over to snaffle a bowl of stew.

"Got what?" asked d'Artagnan, trying to duck away as Aramis peered under the bandage around his head to check the stitches on the wound there.

"What 'e said. That you 'ave nothing to worry about. We're all proud of you. Even Tréville thinks you did a good job. And the Queen doesn't stop askin' about you..." the rest of his sentence was lost as he took a large mouthful of stew.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan. "I don't know – have you? Got the message yet?" He waited, patiently, as hope, disbelief and longing chased across the youngster's face in turn.

Aramis plonked down next to d'Artagnan, nudging him to move over on the pillows so he could get himself comfortable, then passed bowls of stew to him and Athos before taking one for himself. "We'll keep telling you until you believe us, if that's what it takes, d'Artagnan. Even the King said it - in as many words. Do you remember?" He waited while d'Artagnan thought back to his hazy memories of the throne room and the King's parting words. Seeing realisation dawn, Aramis continued. "You see? How often does it happen that the King acknowledges a job well done? So are you listening? You did a good job!" He threw back his head and spread his arms to illustrate his words. "You put everything on the line to keep the Queen safe, and we are proud. And grateful, beyond words." He put an arm around d'Artagnan and pulled him in close. "Very grateful."

He cleared his throat. "Now eat. And then please explain just what you meant about calling the Queen a whore."

* * *

It was three days before Aramis allowed him out of bed. Four, before he lost patience with his self-appointed keepers and swore at Aramis that he'd been able to dress himself since he was two, and didn't need any help now, thank you very much. Aramis had backed off then, smiling sadly as he watched the stubborn Gascon give up on boots and jacket. He'd even opened the door for him as d'Artagnan stomped his way from the bed, bounced off the door frame then wobbled towards the stairs.

In the courtyard below, all conversation had gradually died away as those not on missions or guard duty had finished morning training and were sitting or leaning around the tables, waiting for lunch. Clinging rather too tightly to the handrail, d'Artagnan had lifted his chin and started down the steps determinedly. He made it almost to the bottom before his legs gave way and one bandaged foot slipped off the wooden tread, sending his upper body lurching backwards.

Almost casually, Aramis – following close behind – shot a hand out to support d'Artagnan's back, stopping his head from smashing into the staircase and lowering him in a not-quite-sprawl on the bottom step.

There was a moment's stillness in the courtyard, then the chink of a sword tapping against a post. For a moment d'Artagnan – concentrating only on breathing without groaning at the spike of pain shooting up his back from his precipitous descent – took no notice. Then he realised a second, and a third, tapping had joined the first. He looked up, wiping sweat from his eyes, and glanced around the courtyard.

Men were rising to their feet, leathered hands slapping against thighs, feet stamping and mugs thumping on tables in a ripple of voiceless applause, for the return of the Queen's protector to the courtyard. Astonished, he looked around as more joined in, seeing weathered faces splitting into grins and laughter at his expression.

Overwhelmed, he started to rise, to protest, but a warm hand rested on the back of his neck and grounded him as Aramis settled on the step behind him. "Enjoy it," he advised in d'Artagnan's ear. "Won't be long before they're chucking you around the yard and dumping the worst jobs on you again!"

d'Artagnan breathed a laugh in response, his skin heating in mixed embarrassment and delight. Then the tumult dissolved into laughter as Serge appeared from his kitchen holding a tray of steaming bowls, looking around in complete bemusement as his arrival was – apparently – greeted with applause. Muttering crossly as he realised the appreciation was not for him, he slammed the tray down on the nearest table and stomped back into the kitchen amidst good-natured ribbing and whistles.

d'Artagnan looked around as the men crowded around the food, laughing and teasing as they settled to eat. "I've missed this," he confessed.

Aramis clapped him gently on the shoulder as Porthos ambled up juggling four bowls balanced precariously in his meaty hands, with Athos following behind carrying drinks. "It'll always be here, whenever we return," he commented lightly.

d'Artagnan's heart soared and he heaved a happy sigh. He had a way to go, yet, before he'd be off on another mission – preferably one without the Queen or Constance to worry about – but meanwhile there was friendship, and banter to enjoy. And food to eat.


	31. Chapter 31: Epilogue

_I can't believe we've reached the end - nor how much this story grew in response to comments and reviews where you have wondered about scenes or conversations I had neglected. So thank you for helping me add more layers to the story, and to all of you who have welcomed me to this arena and given me such support and encouragement. Especial thanks to those who reviewed and messaged right from the beginning - I am so grateful!_

 _So we end with a nice bit of fluff in my longest chapter (not sure how that happened!). I hope it warms your day._

 **Chapter 31: Epilogue**

Three days later d'Artagnan was feeling far less charitable towards the Garrison. In fact he was fed up with limping around the yard whilst everyone else trained or rode out on missions or to the Palace. Not that he was particularly keen to face the King again, but nor did he want to be stuck here all the time while life went on without him.

Many things had improved. He'd progressed towards wearing boots now – Porthos' old ones, worn thin but well-cared for and supple, which were on loan until his feet had healed enough to be left unbandaged, by which time he hoped pay day would give him the resources to purchase a new pair. The cut on his forehead was healing well, the bruises on his jaw and around his eye had progressed to an unbecoming yellow colour, his black eye had faded, his split lip had virtually healed. Aramis reassured him that he was progressing well.

But the week of sleep and good food had given him back energy without the ability yet to expend it in physical action. Everything had got to the itchy-but-tender stage, where stitches still pulled on swollen flesh and the smaller cuts were scabbing over and catching on his clothes. He was still unable to lift his right hand above his shoulder or hold anything securely in his bandaged hands, and he had heard Aramis and Athos discussing his shoulder in concerned tones when they thought he was sleeping. Doctor Lemay was sure his shoulder blade was cracked and if so, it would take weeks to heal. Even then, he would face weeks of work to rebuild the muscles and regain full mobility. On top of that, he was no longer sleeping well. After the first few days of utter exhaustion, his rest had been plagued with nightmares about losing Constance in the river, or Sanchez looming out of the fog, raging fires, or savage fists attacking him or the Queen. Every morning since his first visit to the yard, he'd ended up sitting at their table by dawn, shivering under a blanket and clutching the mug of spiced tea Serge wordlessly dumped in front of him while he waited for the yard to come to life around him.

By the end of the week Athos was getting worried. D'Artagnan was not bouncing back – hardly surprising, after the battering his body and mind had taken, but he knew that the enforced inaction was not helping their restless young Musketeer.

Resolving to speak to him alone, he made sure to arrive early at the Garrison, only to find their table empty and no sign of the Gascon. He permitted himself a moment of hope that the lad had managed a better night's sleep – a hope that was dashed as soon as he reached d'Artagnan's room and found it empty, the sheets tangled in testament to another restless night.

Refusing to panic, he descended the stairs again, heading for the kitchens to see if the lad had taken refuge there against the chilly morning, but hesitated as he passed the stables and heard a familiar low murmur. Grinning to himself, he leaned on a post and folded his arms across his chest, watching the Gascon groom his mare and chatting to her as he worked.

Until he saw the idiot step onto a straw bale and clamber stiffly onto her bare back.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he ground out, striding forward then halting abruptly as his sudden rage sent Nuit into a panic of head tossing and skittering hooves.

Miraculously d'Artagnan kept his seat on her back, hushing her quietly then raising his chin in a familiar gesture as Athos approached more circumspectly.

"She needs exercising," he told Athos firmly.

Athos glared at him under lowered brows. "And no one else can ride her?" he enquired, acidly. "Someone perhaps slightly less injured than you?"

d'Artagnan's mouth twitched, and Athos wondered idly when, exactly, had he lost the ability to scare the young Musketeer with just a look.

"I was only planned to walk her. And look, I didn't even try to saddle her."

Athos just shook his head in despair. d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at him and then let out a soft chuckle at Athos' frustrated grunt.

Athos realised, in that moment, that it was too long since he'd seen that hint of merriment dancing around the Gascon's face. Too long since they'd been carefree together, or been able to tease him for the fun of it, rather than to divert him from pain.

Mind made up, he pointed at d'Artagnan. "Stay here. Ten minutes!" He turned on his heel and disappeared.

d'Artagnan blinked, then grinned. He hadn't forbidden him from riding. Sliding carefully off Nuit's warm back again, he went back to grooming her. Even using his left hand, the repetitive movement soothed him and for a moment he stopped thinking and just enjoyed the rustle of straw, the grinding of teeth on hay, and the warm scent of horse.

It was more like 20 minutes before Athos returned, towing a sleepy-looking Aramis and a sore-headed Porthos with him. Without talking, the three efficiently groomed and saddled their own mounts and Porthos saddled Nuit while Athos loaded up saddle bags and rugs. d'Artagnan sat obediently on a straw bale while Aramis checked his bandages. It couldn't be a mission, because they were saddling Nuit. He couldn't believe he'd been cleared for work yet by Tréville, let alone by Aramis. So what...?

Before he could ask, Porthos had hefted him onto Nuit's back and they were heading out of the stables together. d'Artagnan glanced automatically up to the balcony where – as expected – he found Tréville looking down impassively as they moved out. He turned to Athos. "Where are we going?"

Athos just smiled. "You'll see," was all he would say.

They rode at a leisurely pace out of the archway and turned left. D'Artagnan found himself overwhelmed by the sheer vibrancy of their surroundings as they rode through the early-morning market, Paris coming to life around them. It felt like years since he'd been outside without worrying about hidden Spaniards and he looked around rapaciously, drinking in the bustle of everyday life greedily.

Before long they were in a quieter area of town, heading for the east gate. D'Artagnan looked at Athos suspiciously, wondering if they were heading where he hoped they might be. But surely Tréville wouldn't let them gallivant off ... the others had returned to normal duties days before and the whole regiment was busy with extra duties leading up to the King's birthday in a few weeks' time.

Half an hour outside Paris and he was sure he knew where they were heading. Grinning delightedly he rounded on the others. "We're heading for the lake, aren't we? How did you know about it?"

Porthos chuckled. d'Artagnan had often requested permission to ride out of the city when he'd first arrived at the Garrison. They'd followed him a few times, curiously, until they'd realised that he simply needed a few hours of fresh air and birdsong, from time to time. Once a country boy... After that they'd left him alone to enjoy his solitary rides but it didn't mean they didn't know where he went. His favourite ride was to a small wooded lake, half an hour from the east gate at a fast canter. Today it would take them more like an hour at a pace suited to his healing body, but Tréville had authorised their jaunt unhesitatingly when Athos proposed it. The Captain had been worried about the youngster's mood too, and hoped the time away from the Garrison might help to settle him.

D'Artagnan gave up expecting an answer and settled to enjoy the ride. It wasn't long before they arrived, all of them taking deep breaths of pleasure as they turned off the main track and headed down a grassy slope through mixed woodland towards the lake which shone like polished steel through the trees.

The late autumn sun was bright but the air was chill, so as soon as they'd dismounted, Porthos started to gather wood for a fire while Athos unsaddled the horses, and Aramis steered d'Artagnan firmly to sit on the rug he placed at the edge of the trees overlooking the tranquil lake.

In truth d'Artagnan was relieved to sit, feeling ridiculously exhausted after just an hour in the saddle. He lay back on the rug, happy to let the others do the work for once.

Before long Porthos had a merry fire going and had lashed a tripod to heat mead in a lidded jug. Athos produced meat pies, goats cheese and apples from his pack, and they settled to enjoy their meal with the usual amicable bickering between Aramis and Porthos over who had the biggest pie.

Aramis was in the middle of recounting a story about the new cook at the Palace, who had apparently mistaken salt for sugar and served salted tea to a group of nobles who were all too polite to do anything but force it down, when he suddenly stopped talking and grinned. Porthos looked at him, then at where Aramis was looking, and started chuckling to himself. Athos, sitting opposite them next to d'Artagnan, just stared at them both as if they were mad. Aramis slapped Porthos on the shoulder and rose, holding a hand out to pull Athos up.

"What?" Athos said, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet.

"Time we were... fetching wood." Aramis nudged Porthos who caught Athos by the elbow and together they swept him away towards the trees.

"We have plenty of firewood, what are you... Oh." Athos followed Aramis' finger and finally caught on. A slow smile spread across his own features at the sight of Constance riding down the meadow towards their group, a tentative smile on her face. There was another rider silhouetted against the skyline. Athos recognised Tréville's familiar outline as the horse and rider stood watching, then turned and cantered back towards Paris.

"Back in a minute, d'Artagnan," called Aramis over his shoulder, as they headed into the trees.

"Um," responded d'Artagnan sleepily. He was too warm and comfortable even to open his eyes, feeling deliciously tired from the ride, the fresh air, the late October sun... He frowned as a shadow fell across his face. "Thought you'd gone for firewood?" he queried, opening one eye, then lurching upright in a panic as he realised the person standing over him was not one of his brothers.

"Constance! What are you doing here?" he blurted, then looked worried. "Did you come alone? It's not safe to be this far from Paris on your own – what were you thinking? And," as a new thought struck him, "How did you know where we were? I didn't even know until we got here ...!" He stopped as she started laughing. "What?"

"Are you going to let me speak?" she demanded, still chuckling. She sank to her knees next to him and looked him over properly. "You still look awful," she said, bluntly.

d'Artagnan blinked. "Er, thanks?"

"You're welcome. To answer your questions, Tréville escorted me. He's gone back now," she added as d'Artagnan looked up as if expecting to see his Captain lurking behind her.

"That doesn't explain why you're here," he prompted, settling back on his haunches then wincing and shifting as the position pulled on the stitches on his thigh, which weren't quite ready to come out.

Constance waited until he was settled, then lifted his chin with her finger to turn his face towards her so she could scrutinise him properly. "That's looking better, at least. But you're not sleeping," she said. It wasn't a question.

He shrugged, trying to suppress another wince as the movement sent a sharp pain through his shoulder. "I'm still uncomfortable but it's getting better."

"Aramis said you'd had a fever for a few days."

He almost groaned. No doubt she'd wangled a full account from Aramis of every facet of his recovery as soon as they returned to guard duty. He looked her, finding her eyebrows raised in a look he knew only too well. He suddenly grinned, thinking that if she ever had children, they would never be able to pull the wool over her eyes. Then he wondered why he was thinking about her children. They would have cheeky grins, and one dimple... Ow! He glared at her, rubbing his ribs where she'd elbowed him sharply.

"Pay attention, d'Artagnan. I want to know how you are. That's why I came to the Garrison." She added quickly, "the Queen asked me to check on you." There was a pause while he stared, mesmerised, at the tiny pink blush gracing her soft cheeks. "D'Artagnan!" she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes and he blinked. "Are you sure you're not still fevered, or concussed?" She peered at him closely and he pushed her hand away gently as it hovered near the cut on his forehead, which still hurt when he frowned.

"Please tell her Majesty thank you for thinking of me, and that I am healing well." He looked at her sceptical expression and sighed. "It still hurts to walk, and Aramis makes me use a stick around the Garrison." He looked so disgusted at this that she laughed out loud. He glared, but his heart wasn't in it and she could see his lips twitching. "I'm not very good at using it. It doesn't help that my shoulder is still painful."

"Aramis said it was broken?"

"Is there no privacy between a medic and his patient?" complained d'Artagnan.

"I don't know about that, but between friends all is fair game," retorted Constance, blushing again at the way he looked at her.

"Friends, is it?"

"Yes," she answered, defiantly. He nodded, then a serious look crossed his battered face.

"Constance, I'm so glad you've come. I've been wanting to talk to you – " He stopped as she groaned. "What?"

"Please tell me it's not the 'I'm sorry for letting go of you in the river' talk again? I thought we'd got past that?" she demanded.

He hesitated. "No – I mean yes, I understand what you were saying on the way back; it's not about blame or keeping count of who does what. I get that." His eyes searched hers, earnestly, and she silently cursed his Gascon heritage that gave him those dark, expressive eyes, the mobile lips, the high cheekbones, the look of deep emotion that she found so irresistible.

She cleared her throat. "What, then?" she asked, more gently.

He let out a small sigh. He wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He'd been longing to see her, to make sure she was feeling better after the traumatic events, including having to kill three men. And to check how things were between them after all the danger, the injuries, being hunted, sleeping rough, having to rescue him and the Queen.

And, he acknowledged to himself, he wanted nothing more than to tell her that he still loved her - would always love her. But he was afraid it would push her away, and he would lose both her and the fragile closeness they'd established over the last week. He looked away from her, his gaze settling on the mercurial waters of the lake under the late autumn sun. She waited. Then her hand crept onto his.

He swallowed, seeing such a look of understanding on her face that he almost broke, and told her everything. Surely she knew already...? Would it be safe to talk freely?

* * *

"What's 'appening?" Porthos demanded. Aramis had insisted that they stand out of sight, but he'd then flopped down against a tree and was peering around the trunk every ten seconds.

"Nothing."

"What d'ya mean, nothin'?"

"They're just... sitting there."

"They must be talkin', surely?"

"I don't think so... oh!"

"What?" Porthos gave up all pretence of discretion and joined Aramis at the wood's edge, peering down to where the pair sat, 100 yards away on the grass. "Is he...? Aw, _merde_."

"What?" Athos suddenly joined them, drawn in against his better judgement, in time to see what looked like Constance wiping a tear from d'Artagnan's eye. "Oh."

They all looked at each other, baffled. This wasn't quite what they'd hoped for when they'd left the pair alone.

* * *

"What was that for?" she said. He still hadn't spoken, still looked out across the lake, his profile solemn, and she'd tried to give him time to assemble his thoughts, but hadn't been able to hold back when she saw the single tear tracking a path down his cheek.

He closed his eyes, and cleared his throat, hesitated, then jumped in with both feet. "I'm afraid." He swallowed, feeling the impact of the word bouncing around in his skull.

She frowned. "Afraid of...?" she prompted softly.

"of... of life without you." He spoke so quietly she almost missed it. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Not... I'm not saying... Oh, hell's teeth. This is harder than..." he stopped for a moment and she thought he would give up, but he blew out a strong breath out and kept going. "The thing is I love you. And I won't ever stop loving you. No!" he stopped her as she went to speak. "I know you can't do anything about it, I know you're trapped, and trying to do the right thing, and that's _fine_." His voice cracked on the last word and he hurried on. "I respect you for it. And when I called you a coward for not following your heart... I'm so sorry. That's not... you are the bravest woman I know. And the kindest, and the most understanding..."

She did speak then, to stop her blushes. "We were both hurting that day. I know you didn't mean it."

He looked relieved. "Thank you." He paused, trying to get back on track. "What I'm saying though, is that I'm afraid of... hurting you. Or of you being hurt, and me not being able to help."

"Oh, d'Artagnan," she said impatiently. "I thought we'd dealt with this. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself – "

He smiled, sadly. "I know that! But what I'm saying is... we all find things difficult. Like, when I lost you in the river..." She tutted again and he hurried on: "I can't help it, Constance! Yes, it does haunt me. That's just how I feel. I can live with it but I can't forget it and you ... you have to accept that. I won't ever feel comfortable about leaving you to fight your own battles, no matter how capable you are!"

He'd raised his voice with the passion he felt, and she found herself forgetting her own annoyance and just listening. He'd found his stride at last. Behind him the three watchers strained to piece together the odd word they could hear, and Porthos leaned too hard on Aramis' shoulder, nearly collapsing to the ground as Aramis shoved him away in annoyance. Constance was, fortunately, oblivious as she watched d'Artagnan's every expression.

"I know when you had to kill that Spaniard –" he'd dropped his voice and now looked at her properly, his eyes full of compassion "– I know that was horrible for you. I know that will keep you awake at night sometimes, and I want to help you with it, but I can't, because I'm not there... that's what I mean. I just want to be there for you. There's no one else you can talk to about it, is there? So ... so I don't want you to be alone, when things happen or when you feel... when you need someone to talk to." He heaved a huge breath, wondering if he'd just ruined everything. And waited.

On the hillside above, three men craned their necks and shushed each other.

She bowed her head as her fingers gently traced the bruises and scrapes which still marred the back of his hand.

"Thank you," she said, at last. His face creased and she explained: "for telling me how you feel. And for caring... and you're right, I have had nightmares about that man." She could feel the tension vibrating off him but he kept quiet. "I will talk to you, if it gets too bad. If that's alright."

He nodded, and turned his hand to hold hers properly. "Anytime," he assured her, and she knew he meant it.

She watched a raven fly past, croaking with every wing beat. "I think I understand what you're saying, about the guilt thing. It's part of who you are, part of how you care for people." He nodded again, his earnest expression starting to relax. "Athos is the same, isn't he – in fact we all are, probably. You're saying we mustn't deny people if they need to apologise or they feel guilty, just accept it?" He nodded again and picked up her other hand. She looked down and he dropped it again hastily, and she grinned at him. "I can't promise anything. But I do know that... my feelings haven't changed. For you, that is. I don't know what will happen. But I know we will always ... I know you will always have a place in my life." She smiled as he exhaled, noisily, a boyish grin spreading slowly across his face. Suddenly alarmed in case he'd misunderstood, she nudged him. "I only said..."

"I heard you," he exclaimed. Then nodded, and repeated softly. "I hear you." Their eyes met in total understanding and his heart pounded as his eyes dropped to her lips.

The moment was broken an instant later by a Porthos-sized yelp, and as they both turned to look up to the woods they saw Porthos sprawled face down on the grass, Aramis collapsing with his butt in the air, and Athos standing glaring at them both, his arms folded firmly across his chest. D'Artagnan rose stiffly to his feet. "Are you okay? What happened?" he called.

Athos nudged Aramis none-too-gently with his foot. "They overbalanced whilst trying to eavesdrop," he answered laconically.

"Hey!" Aramis protested, picking himself up and ducking as Porthos lunged for him crossly.

"You tipped me over your effing shoulder!" Porthos grumbled, hauling himself up.

"I think we might as well join them again." Aramis sounded sheepish, as well he might, Athos reflected. Although to be honest, he'd been watching just as intently. Though not quite as obviously.

They meandered down the hill towards Constance and d'Artagnan, with Aramis and Porthos shoving each other and bickering good-naturedly. Just like old times, Athos smiled to himself. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

"We should be heading back soon," Athos advised as he reached the others, looking at the orange sun which was already touching the tree tops on the other side of the lake.

"No, wait!" Constance suddenly rummaged in the pocket of her skirt. "I nearly forgot – the Queen sent you this, d'Artagnan."

They all looked as she produced a small letter sealed with the letter "A" inside the royal crest. D'Artagnan screwed up his face as he took it, looking puzzled. "She wrote me a letter – what does it say?"

"How would I know? Just open it!"

"Yeah, come on. Don't keep us in suspense!" grumbled Porthos, leaning over expectantly and peering at it.

D'Artagnan ripped the seal off and unfolded the parchment. He scanned the letter quickly, then looked up, then back at the letter and read it again, more slowly. Then handed it back to Constance, his fingers trembling a little.

"Well?" demanded Aramis.

"d'Artagnan?" Athos looked at him, then Constance who was now reading the letter herself.

"Oh," she exclaimed at the end, and then broke into a smile. "How thoughtful!"

"What does it say?" Porthos couldn't wait any longer and tried to get the letter from Constance who held it out of reach then passed it back to d'Artagnan.

"Careful," she admonished. "It's worth a lot of money, don't tear it."

"Right, that's done it. D'Artagnan, if you don't tell me right now what's in that letter, so help me I'll put you over my shoulder and dump you in the lake!"

D'Artagnan still looked stunned. "She ... she thanked me for looking after her and..."

"Blah, blah, yes, but why is it worth money?" Aramis' turn to sound impatient.

"I'll have you know," d'Artagnan said with dignity, "that this is the first – and probably the last – letter I've ever had from royalty, so Her Majesty's words are worth more to me than money." Aramis made a strangled noise and d'Artagnan took pity on them. "However, she has also written that I am to have a new sword made, to replace the one I lost in the river, and her letter serves as a promissory note to the sword maker on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, Monsieur Clichy."

That shut them all up. Porthos' eyes went round with pleasure and even Athos looked surprised. M. Clichy was one of the finest sword-makers in Paris – and therefore in France. To have a bespoke sword from him was something of which most Musketeers could only dream.

"She has also sent a note to the leather-maker Monsieur Rambuteau, commissioning him to make me a new uniform - doublet and trousers - as mine is now so ... battered, I think was the word she used." He peered down at the letter again, then nearly choked as Porthos clapped him vigorously on the shoulder. "Mind the war-wounds, Porthos!" he protested, laughing.

"Oi, I aimed for a good bit 'a skin, you cheeky whelp," Porthos mock cuffed him around the head, then started chuckling. "Sounds like Aramis is gonna have some competition, don' it? Once you get your posh new gear..." And just like that, the pair were off again, wrestling and bickering.

Athos held a hand out to Constance and d'Artagnan and pulled them both to their feet. Constance thanked Athos prettily, then impulsively flung her arms around him and hugged him, then quickly turned to d'Artagnan and hugged him for a lot longer. Athos smiled, and bent to gather up their picnic, calling Aramis and Porthos to stop horsing around and help pack the saddlebags.

When Constance finally released d'Artagnan they both looked a bit pink. "I should get back," Constance said reluctantly.

"We'll ride with you." Coming from Athos this was an instruction, not a suggestion, and she nodded her thanks. As she brushed grass from her skirts, Athos said quietly to d'Artagnan, "Feeling better about things?"

D'Artagnan finished stowing the Queen's letter safely in the pocket of his borrowed jacket, and nodded. "Yes. About a lot of things."

"Hm." Athos didn't elaborate and d'Artagnan looked at him. Athos raised an eyebrow and added "It's surprising what a picnic can achieve, isn't it?"

d'Artagnan laughed, and turned to walk Constance back to the road.

The others followed behind leading the horses, watching the couple ahead who walked side by side, not quite touching but clearly at perfect peace with each other. Aramis nudged Athos. "I give it a month." Athos gave him a hooded look without comment, but his lips twitched. He wasn't about to bet against Aramis on this one.

Porthos sounded confused. "A month for what? Till 'e's healed?"

Aramis shook his head fondly at his friend. "Till they're back together," he told him kindly, chuckling at the look on Porthos' face.

"But they're not – she's married, and she told 'im... they're just pals now, ain't they?"

There was a snort from Athos and Aramis laughed out loud. "One day, my friend, you and I are going to have that talk." He put his free arm around Porthos' shoulders and patted him.

"What talk?"

"The one about women, and flirting."

Athos slowed his steps as the two pals meandered on up towards the road, still joshing and pushing each other, until they finally dissolved into laughter as d'Artagnan and Constance turned to watch their antics. He looked around, drinking in the tranquillity of the lake, the eerie call of a coot from the water's edge, the cool breeze ruffling the long grass, and a phalanx of long-necked geese flying slowly overhead, heading south for the winter. It had been a good day.

"Come on, Athos, keep up old man!" called Aramis, and he saw they were all waiting for him. He permitted a small smile to crease his face as he jogged to catch them up. A good day, indeed.

* * *

 _This is such a warm and encouraging place to dip a toe into creative writing and I can't believe how much fun I have had, both in writing and posting, over the last month. Thank you all for reading. I will be back!_


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